In a Place of Darkness

10

Wasn’t easy, keeping the yawn in, but Angus did his best.

Everyone had congregated in the incident room, watching DCI Monroe wrapping up Morning Prayers.

Twenty past seven and the sun was barely clawing its way above the valley’s rim, painting the sky a dark, ominous scarlet that glowed in through Operation Telegram’s windows as if the whole world was burning.

Angus stood at the back, in his still-damp suit, clutching one of those tins of Rampant Gorilla from the filing cabinet — which, wonder of wonders, the thieving gits on night shift hadn’t found. He took a scoof and stifled the resultant burp, waiting for the ‘ob-scene’ caffeine to kick in.

‘...OK?’ Monroe pointed the remote, switching off the projector. ‘That means, if we don’t catch this bastard today, two more people die. Get yourselves out there and dig till you find something.’

The team creaked into life, people heading to phones and computers, or grabbing their coats.

Monroe raised his voice. ‘Anyone who doesn’t know their assignment: Rhona has the list.’ Clapping his hands. ‘Let’s do this!’

Angus pulled out his phone and switched off flight mode, connecting to the station Wi-Fi as he slouched towards the door. Then brought up a web browser and thumbed ‘DR JONATHAN FIFE, FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST’ into the search bar.

There weren’t a lot of results. Surprisingly few, to be honest: less than two pages. And most of those seemed to be for things like The Journal of American Psychological Science. A lot of the links dead-ended at paywalls, but the couple that did let him through were bone-dry research papers about serial killers.

Nothing on YouTube or TikTok, and no image results.

He followed a clump of PCs out into the corridor — ’Tash and Colly arguing about whose football club was crapper, while Monster Munch complained loudly about the packed lunch her girlfriend had made that morning.

Might be worth having a look on Facebook: see if Dr Fife was kicking about on there. He wasn’t.

Angus scuffed his way down the corridor, ignoring the noticeboards and motivational posters, as he had a bash on Twitter, then Bindle, Threads, and Instagram.

Getting sod-all for his trouble.

He’d almost reached the sanctuary of their wee borrowed office, when the clatter-clack of heels closed in from behind. But when he turned, it wasn’t Dr Fife following him, it was DS Massie, in a dark-blue fighting suit, with a clipboard tucked under her arm.

‘Sarge.’ Nodding a greeting. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any news on—’

‘If you’re asking about the appeal for people not to get murdered — far as we know, it’s working. Till it doesn’t.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s your Dr Fife?’

‘He’s not mine, really, Sarge, I just—’

‘Oh no.’ She held up a silencing finger. ‘No, no, no. Until we catch the Fortnight Killer, he is very much yours.’

Bugger.

Angus opened the office door, holding it as she marched inside.

It looked much as he’d left it last night, except for the wee decorative touch added by whichever member of night shift hadn’t managed to find the energy drinks Angus had planked in the filing cabinet: a framed portrait of Hannibal Lecter, perched on top of the reference books.

DS Massie did a slow three-sixty, taking in the squiggle-clarted whiteboards, the taped-up sheets of yellow legal pad, the crime-scene photographs. Given the curl of her lip, she wasn’t that impressed. ‘So where is he?’

Angus draped his jacket over the back of the nearest chair. ‘Still at the hotel, I guess. He was really knackered, so—’

‘Does this look like the face of someone who cares about forensic-psychologist-sleepy-times? He’s got a profile to finish, a PM to attend, and a killer to catch.’

‘But—’

Her finger poked into Angus’s chest. ‘The Boss put a lot of faith in you when he made you Dr Fife’s liaison-slash-minion-slash-minder. Don’t let him down.’

Angus drooped. ‘No, Sarge.’

‘Cos if you do, you might just find yourself on my Naughty List.’ She stepped in close, face like a lump of carved granite. ‘And believe me when I say you do not want that.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Glad we had this chat.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Now go find Dr Pain-In-The-Arse. Last thing we need is this bastard getting away with murder because Fife’s snoozed through the bloody post-mortem.’

Angus hunched over in his squeaky office chair, phone liberated from its plastic bag and pressed to his ear — unable to prevent the wheedling tone that had infected his voice. ‘I know I did, but he’s not answering his phone, so if you could just try again, please?’

The hotel manager sighed, sounding posh and bored and wondering what on earth had gone wrong with his life that he had to deal with idiots like Angus. ‘It’s not even eight o’clock yet. Maybe your friend wants a long lie?’

‘Please: I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

‘I’ve got other guests to look after here, you know.’ Getting sniffy now. ‘Mary’s off sick, and breakfast for six Romanian businessmen doesn’t cook itself. And none of them will even look at a vegetarian sausage!’

A voice echoed out in the little office, right behind Angus. ‘DC MacVicar? Er... Angus, isn’t it?’

Oh, bugger.

Angus swivelled around in his chair. Forced a smile.

DS Sharp stood by the door, clutching this season’s fashion accessory: yet another clipboard. Grimacing as she sniffed the air. ‘Why does it smell of wet dog in here?’ And then she saw the makeshift murder board. ‘Wow. Isn’t that... interesting.’

‘Sarge?’ He scrambled from his seat, one hand covering the phone. ‘Just trying to get hold of Dr Fife. He didn’t show for the briefing.’

‘So I saw.’ She checked her clipboard. ‘You’re on my list for the PM today. Ever attended a post-mortem before?’

‘Suicide, when I was a probationer: mother of three OD’d on sleeping pills, antidepressants, and tequila.’

‘In for a shock today, then. Don’t worry though, I’ll be there to keep you right. Come find me in twenty minutes and we’ll get you kitted out, go through the procedures, then head over there.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ He cleared his throat. ‘How’s your dad?’

‘Pfff...’ Rolling her eyes. ‘And make sure you’ve got warm socks on. Bloody mortuary’s like a fridge since the refit.’

The word ‘Eric?’ rattled around the corridor, outside.

Oh sod, it was DCI Monroe.

Angus searched the little office for hiding places, but there weren’t any.

Maybe he’d get lucky and Monroe would go the other way?

‘Eric?’ Definitely getting closer.

‘Sorry, got to go.’ Angus hung up and scrambled in behind the open door — just in time, because Monroe knocked on the doorframe and stuck his head into the room.

‘Laura? You seen Eric?’

Angus squeezed himself back against the wall.

‘Think he’s doing a bacon-roll run, Boss.’

‘Better be.’ A worried edge slid into Monroe’s voice. ‘Any sign of our forensic psychologist, yet?’ Sniff. ‘And what’s that horrible smell?’

‘DC McVicar will know.’ She turned. ‘Angus...’ Stared at him hiding behind the door. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Oh. I... sent him off to review all the post-mortem policies and procedures. Want to make sure he’s all up to speed and—’

‘See if you can find him. We’re on the clock here.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Thanks, Laura.’ Oh God, he was coming into the room. ‘Well, at least we know they’ve been doing something.’ Most of him was still obscured by the door, but his arm and hand appeared, pointing at the whiteboards. ‘Any of this make sense to you?’

She followed his finger. ‘Not really, Boss.’

‘Me neither.’ He turned, voice fading as he walked away, heading down the corridor. ‘Now, where’s Eric with my sausage butty...’

As soon as he’d gone, DS Sharp closed the door, exposing Angus in all his hiding shame. ‘Having fun?’

Come on: quick convincing lie.

‘I... thought maybe I’d... be in the way?’

Well, that was crap.

She puffed out her cheeks, tilted her head on one side as she stared at him. Then smiled. ‘You’re a very, very strange man, you know that, don’t you, Constable?’

Heat flooded Angus’s face. ‘Sorry, Sarge. It’s just... Sergeant Massie made it clear I was responsible for Dr Fife, and stressed the importance of not letting the Boss down.’

‘Let me guess: threatened you with the Naughty List?’

He nodded.

DS Sharp sooked air through her teeth. ‘Yeah, you really don’t want that. Sounds like you’d better go find your forensic psychologist, then.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

She checked her watch. ‘So why are you still standing there? PM starts at nine.’

‘Yes, Sarge!’

He grabbed his jacket and scurried off.

Not exactly dignified.

Angus jogged up Jessop Street, the beginnings of a stitch burning its way into his ribs.

The blood-red sky had faded to an anaemic glow, trapped between the valley’s rim and the thick lid of clay-coloured clouds. Wasn’t raining yet, but that was bound to change.

Without the illumination, St Jasper’s Cathedral was a dismal lump of spiky granite, weighing the city down for its sins. What little daylight there was hadn’t done a lot for the Bishop’s View Hotel, either. Eighteen shades of grey, and all of them miserable.

He hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and shoved through the hotel door into an old-fashioned reception bedecked with tartan and tweed, where dusty stags’ heads glared down at him from the walls. A carpeted staircase led off to the upper floors.

A TV burbled away in the dining room: breakfast news to go with your full Scottish.

‘...localized flooding, causing travel disruption to the Aberdeen — Inverness line. And there’s more rain and wind on the way...’

Of course there was.

Half a dozen youngish men in sharp suits bustled down the stairs. All slicked-back hair, sunglasses, and neatly trimmed beards.

The one in the lead pulled out a silver cigarette case. ‘Doamne, cred că ăștia au fost cei mai infecți cârnați pe care i-am mâncat în viața mea.’

One of his friends grimaced. ‘Parcă ar fi fost făcuți din rumeguș combinat cu păr de câine.’

A third shook his head. ‘Rahat de câine, mai degrabă.’ The others laughed. ‘Putem, te rog, să ieșim mâine în oraș pentru micul dejun?’

Angus held the door for them. Just because he was in a hurry, and they looked like an Eastern European Yakuza tribute act, that was no reason to forget his manners.

They hustled past.

A nod from Mr Cigarette Case. ‘Mulțumesc.’

Angus nodded back.

At the rear of the pack, someone had gone for the full Tony Stark. He gave Angus a cheery wave. ‘Băi ce mare-i ăsta!’

The guy next to him patted Angus on the arm on the way past. ‘Vezi să nu-ți manânce căpcăunul toți copiii!’

More laughter, and they were gone, heading out into the blustery morning.

No sign of a receptionist, or the grumpy, posh hotel manager, so Angus wheeched himself upstairs, making almost no sound at all on the carpeted steps — past landings and closed doors and more tartan than could possibly be healthy — to the third floor.

Only three rooms, each with a brass plaque screwed to the heavy wooden door.

He knocked on one marked ‘BISHOP ISBISTER’. Not hard, just a polite rap-a-tap-tap. Then stuck his ear to the door. ‘Dr Fife? Hello? It’s Angus.’ Didn’t sound as if anyone was alive in there, so he had another go: rap-a-tap-tap. ‘We’ve got the post-mortem at nine, Dr Fife.’

Angus peeked at his watch: twenty past eight, already.

DS Massie was going to kill him.

He knocked again, louder this time. ‘Dr Fife! Are you awake?’

You know what? To hell with it.

Angus broke out his official Police knock. Three blows, hard and loud. ‘DR JONATHAN FIFE, OPEN UP: THIS IS THE POLICE!’

What sounded like a strangled scream howled out somewhere inside, followed by a thump.

What if someone had got in there?

What if the press weren’t the only ones who knew Dr Fife was in town?

What if the Fortnight Killer had decided to kill two birds with one hammer?

He backed away from the door, making enough space to kick the thing off its hinges, in five, four — raising his boot to slam it into the wood, just beside the handle — three, two—

The door opened a crack and a sliver of crumpled face peered up at him.

ABORT. ABORT.

Angus staggered sideways, pulled himself back upright again.

If Dr Fife noticed he’d just missed a boot in the gob, it didn’t show. Instead, he blinked, smacking his lips as he ran a hand through his scruffy curls. Eyes bloodshot and baggy. He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with a dragon on it — and going by the bare chunk of hairy knee and shin on show between the door and the doorframe, very little else. Something weird made a bulge in the dragon’s forehead, about the size of a milk-bottle top. As if Dr Fife had a weird piercing in the middle of his chest, though it could’ve been a lumpy pendant necklace. Which would make more sense. ‘Where’m I?’

Angus stared.

He wasn’t even dressed.

‘The post-mortem starts in thirty-eight minutes!’

Dr Fife had a scratch. ‘This isn’t California...?’ Then a huge yawn cracked his mouth wide open, showing off that American dentistry, leaving him even more droopy than before. ‘Who are... Why are you here?’

‘Because the post-mortem starts in thirty-eight minutes! You already missed Morning Prayers.’

‘Like all sensible deities, I don’t answer prayers till after lunch.’ He closed the door in Angus’s face. ‘Come back later.’

Oh no you don’t.

The Official Police Knock rattled the wood. ‘I WILL KICK THIS SODDING DOOR IN!’

It opened again, revealing a lopsided glare. ‘It’s twenty past one in the morning!’

‘Get dressed. We’ve only got today to catch this guy, before someone else dies!’

Dr Fife crumpled sideways, groaned, then gave the door a wee dunt with his forehead. ‘Have you Neanderthal assholes never heard of jet lag?’ He squinted up at Angus. ‘Get me some coffee and I’ll think about—’

‘I... just...’ Jaw clenched. Blood fizzing. ‘If you’re not... in like, two minutes!’

‘All right, all right.’ He shut the door again. ‘God, I hate morning people.’

11

Come on, come on...

Angus checked his watch, waiting for a gap in the traffic so he could charge across the roundabout and onto Castle Hill Infirmary grounds. Quarter to. Fifteen minutes till they opened Douglas Healey-Robinson up on the cutting table. He could do this. He could.

If only the bastard traffic would stop for five seconds and let—

A woman in a cherry-red MX-5 flashed her lights at him.

He ran for it, waving a thank-you on the way.

Oldcastle’s main hospital was a sprawling mass of ugly buildings. Some red-brick Victorian, with mean little windows and cheerless façades, others in concrete-and-steel with all the personality and visual appeal of a haemorrhoid. And both types needed a bloody good wash.

The twin chimneys of the hospital incinerators loomed over everything, spewing clouds of thick porridge-grey out into the awful morning as whatever the hell they were getting rid of burned. Red lights winking away at the top, warning aircraft to steer well clear.

He jogged between the maternity hospital and the kids’ unit, towards the main building — a rambling jigsaw of a place with various bits and wings sticking out — getting slower, the pain in his side jabbing and stabbing with every breath. Thighs chafing against his damp trousers. Shoes slapping against the wet pavement as he stumbled on.

A gap between two wings led to a gloomy canyon that descended a good twenty feet below street level, lined with scuffed concrete, pipes, wires, and ducting.

He ducked under the black-and-yellow barrier blocking the road, and hurpled into the shadows.

A loading bay lurked at the bottom — easily big enough to take an articulated lorry — but the roller door was down, exposing the words ‘MORTUARY SERVICE ENTRANCE ~ AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY’.

Angus limped to a halt at the security door, set off to one side. Clutching his aching ribs with one hand as he mashed the intercom button.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzzzzzz...

Come on, come on, come—

A distorted voice crackled from the speaker, bearing the squished vowels of a heavy Polish accent. ‘Yellow?’

Took three goes to get his voice to work, through all the wheezing and coughing. ‘It’s DC... MacVicar... Here for the Healey-Robinson... post-mortem?’

‘You are cutting it a bit fine, are you not, Detective Constable?’

As if he didn’t already know that.

‘Please, I’m going to be late!’

‘Probably, yes.’

But the intercom buzzed again, and the door clicked open.

Angus barged through into a bare concrete space that echoed his footsteps as he hurried past a small, clean, silver-grey van with ‘MCCRAE & MCCRAE ~ FUNERAL SERVICES’ picked out in discreet gold lettering.

Its rear doors were open, but there was no sign of anybody. Or any body.

A black line ran across the floor, disappearing under a pair of battered double doors.

Right.

He limp-jogged over there, shoving his way into a short, manky corridor. The walls were scuffed, the waist-high trolley plates all dented and scratched, because this was the one bit of the hospital where it didn’t matter how rough or careless you were — the patients weren’t going to complain.

The black line ended at a double-wide lift in battered stainless steel.

He jabbed the ‘DOWN’ button three, four, half-a-dozen times.

‘Please, please, please, please, please...’

His phone jingled into life.

Probably DS Sharp, or DCI Monroe, wanting to know where the hell he was.

But when he pulled it out, in its ziplock freezer bag, it was Ellie’s name that glowed in the middle of the screen. Along with the time — 08:51.

Which meant he really didn’t have time to talk to her.

Especially if she was just going to rub his nose in it about missing the show last night.

What in God’s name was taking this rotten lift so long?

He stabbed the button a few more times.

Then answered Ellie’s call.

‘I can’t really talk right now.’

‘And here’s me trying to do you a favour, you ungrateful sod. But if you don’t want my help...?’

Finally: the lift dinged at him, the doors juddering open slow as treacle. Soon as there was enough of a gap, Angus squeezed inside and jabbed ‘CLOSE DOORS’. Over and over and over again.

Shockingly enough, it was every bit as miserable in here. Sagging ceiling tiles, and a faint whiff of mildew and mouldy sausages. Dents in the walls, the terrazzo floor patched with duct tape. A smattering of stickers ran around the inside, just above the handrail: lots of them wheeched off Fyffes bananas; a good few marked ‘EASY PEEL SATSUMAS’; several ‘ARE YOU YES YET?’ saltires; half a dozen explicit ads for escort services; and, for some strange reason, a whole litter of bright-pink Peppa Pigs.

And the doors still hadn’t closed.

He gave up on the button and battered the one with ‘MORTUARY’ on it instead.

‘Look, Ellie, I’m sorry, but now’s not a good—’

‘How was your super-special celebration dinner, Mr I’m-Too-Moral-and-Bum-Faced-to-Go-to-the-Theatre-with-My-Oldest-Friend?’

The doors finished their painful crawl into the walls and started in again. Creaking and groaning like Methuselah’s knees.

‘I’m on my way to a post-mortem, so—’

‘Macaroni cheese again?’

‘Liver stroganoff.’ Which would’ve been sad enough at the best of times, but when you were looking forward to a massive Chinese blowout feast? ‘And I was late home, so it’d been sitting out since—’

‘That’s great.’

The doors clunked shut at long last and the lift shuddered its way down into the building’s depths, while Angus stared at the illuminated letters. Which changed so slowly it hurt: LB, B1...

Ellie’s voice fizzed and burrrrred from the phone’s speaker, getting more distorted the further down he went. ‘Your top-secret FBI Profiler woulddddn’t happen to... a Dr Jonathan Ffffife, wouuuld he?’

Oh, bugger.

Angus went very still. ‘Ellie? Please don’t.’

‘...get him to talllk... me, we couldddd...’

‘Please: you can’t publish anything about him, or he’ll stop helping and people will die!’

‘...fnnnn... in... tomorrrrrrow’s pappper... itttttt...’

‘Ellie?’

Nothing but the grinding moans coming from the lift’s mechanisms.

‘Ellie!’ He pulled the phone from his ear and gawped at it.

‘NO SIGNAL’.

Oh, this was not good.

This was not good at all.

The lift convulsed to a halt, with a ding, and the doors started their interminable crawl open again.

Angus didn’t wait. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and shoved himself sideways through the gap, soon as they were far enough apart.

Down here, in the guts of the building, far below the bits patients ever got to see, it was a warren of grubby corridors and hidden rooms — the ceiling obscured by a thick layer of yet more ducts and cables and wires and pipes.

He picked up a bit of speed, hurtling into the labyrinth, following the black line past storage cupboards and caged-off recesses full of abandoned equipment.

Around the corner, elbows and knees pumping — straight past yet another pair of bashed double doors.

Wait, wait, wait...

The black line had disappeared from beneath his feet. Angus skittered to a halt. Turned and backtracked to the doors. A wee plastic plaque sat beside them: ‘MORTUARY SERVICES’.

OK.

Angus barged through into an antiseptic corridor, bathed in the dark-brown scent of death and disinfectant — wheeching his jacket off on the way.

He grabbed a white Tyvek oversuit in the changing room, ripping it from its plastic cover and scrambling into the thing’s groin-and-armpit-constricting embrace in record time. Swapping his shoes for a pair of white wellies, before snatching purple nitrile gloves, a facemask, and safety goggles from the dispensers. Yanking them on as he waded through the ankle-deep antiseptic bath on his way to the cutting room.

Stainless-steel workbenches and cupboards gleamed in the LED spotlights. Slate-grey tiles on the floor. A couple of big flatscreen tellies, hooked up to a laptop.

Three of the walls were that wipe-clean plastic finish you could use as a whiteboard, but the fourth was completely made up of refrigerated drawers, a winch running on rails along the ceiling in front of it.

Two cutting tables dominated the room, beneath matching CCTV globes — like the glittering black eyes of some vast morbid insect.

Luckily, the extractor fan was going full pelt, because Douglas Healey-Robinson’s bloated remains were laid out on the nearest table. Before, he’d been covered in dried blood and mould, but someone had washed him, meaning the bruises stood out in harsh contrast to his pale waxy skin. Every puncture wound a black slash.

And even with the extractor running, you could still taste him in every breath. Sour and rank and sickly sweet, all at the same time.

Three people, in the full SOC protective gear, had gathered in front of the table, and they all turned to stare as Angus staggered to a halt — wellies squeaking on the floor. The PPE would’ve made it impossible to tell who was who if they hadn’t written their names on them in black Sharpie: ‘PROFESSOR MERVIN TWINING’, ‘LAURA SHARP’, and ‘BLAIR MONROE’. No sign of Dr Fife.

DS Sharp checked the clock mounted above the eye-wash station. Nine o’clock, on the dot. ‘Talk about skin of your teeth.’

Monroe stiffened. ‘Constable. You should’ve been here half an hour ago!’

‘Sorry... sorry, Boss.’ Propping himself up against the nearest worktop, breathing like a leaky bicycle pump, sweat running down the small of his back and soaking into his pants. ‘I had... had to wake... Dr Fife up... and... and he’s—’

‘Surprised it took you this long.’ Fife emerged from behind the table — the rotten sod had been hidden by DCI Monroe.

‘How...’ Angus stared. ‘How did you...? But...? I waited... waited outside... for ages!’

‘Did you? Wondered where you’d got to.’

‘But... It...’ He blinked at DS Sharp. ‘Sarge?’

She breathed out, inflating her mask like a wee fabric airbag. ‘Well, the important thing is everyone’s here now.’ Her gloved finger came up, purple and pointing. ‘But don’t touch anything, break anything, or get in the way.’

He sagged. ‘Sarge.’

Then glared at Dr Fife.

This was all his bloody fault.

Fife hadn’t bothered to write his name on his chest, presumably because it would be hard to mistake him for anyone else, but his SOC suit fitted perfectly. Which was kind of weird, because wouldn’t he need to roll up the legs and sleeves? And if not: how come his was impeccably tailored when Angus’s suit was doing its best to crush both testicles and Heimlich his oxters.

Unfortunately, Angus’s glower failed to wither Dr Fife to dust, or cause him to spontaneously combust. Instead, the cheeky bastard launched into a jaunty whistled rendition of Entry of the Gladiators.

A side door opened, and in lumbered someone else in the full SOC kit, carrying a lumpy wooden stool thing. ‘PAVEL WIŚNIEWSKI’, according to the Sharpie words printed across his chest. So probably the guy who’d buzzed Angus through the security door. The accent confirmed it: ‘Here we go. I knew he was back there, somewhere. The refit, she has been good, much easier for cleaning, but everything so difficult to find now!’

He unfolded the stool into a tiny set of steps and put them down in front of Dr Fife, who climbed up, till he was much the same height as everyone else. Well, everyone except Angus.

‘That’s better.’ Fife rubbed his gloved hands, as if he was actually looking forward to this. ‘Shall we begin?’

Professor Twining nodded. ‘Pavel, start the recording, will you?’

His own personal Igor limped over to a bank of switches and poked at them until red lights winked on in the nearest CCTV unit.

A solid bleeeeeeep came from a speaker somewhere.

‘Thank you.’ Twining cleared his throat. ‘Post-mortem beginning on IC-One male: mid-to-late thirties, one metre eighty-one — or five foot eleven and a quarter in old money — eighty-two point five-six kilos; preliminarily identified as one “Douglas Matthew Healey-Robinson”. Present are Professor Mervin Twining, APT Pavel Wiśniewski, DCI Blair Monroe...’

Angus sidled over to Dr Fife as the pathologist went through the preliminaries. Keeping his voice low and sharp. ‘How? How did you get here before me?’

He matched Angus’s whisper: ‘I drove. You were the one said we were in a hurry.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a car? I ran here!’

Professor Twining moved on to lifting the victim’s limbs, peering at them and dictating away, while Pavel snapped photographs with a big digital camera — its flash turning everything into a strobe-light freeze-frame, bouncing back from all that stainless steel.

‘You weren’t in the corridor when I locked up, so I naturally deduced that you’d be waiting for me in the car park, round the back.’

‘I was out front!’

‘Well, how was I supposed to know?’ A lopsided shrug. ‘You didn’t show, so I drove myself over here — on the wrong side of the road, I might add, in a strange city, without caffeine, after only a couple hours’ sleep.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘Ahem!’ DS Sharp turned and gave them both the evil eye.

Dr Fife nodded, back to full volume again. ‘Quite right.’ He turned and placed a gloved finger against Angus’s facemask. ‘Shhh... Constable. You’re spoiling the autopsy.’ Then faced front again.

Leaving Angus standing there, making frustrated little penguin gestures.

Because what the hell else could he do?

External examination over, Professor Twining placed the blade of his scalpel into the little dip between Douglas Healey-Robinson’s clavicles, slicing through the skin from there, down the midline, up and over the bloated stomach, and down through the tangled mat of belly hair to just above the poor sod’s willy. ‘Abdomen is distended, probably as a result of decomposition, but we’d better check if there’s been a puncture of the gastrointestinal tract.’

His assistant fetched a squeezy bottle as Twining made delicate slices and worked his left hand into the body.

‘We start by making a small pocket in the extraperitoneal soft tissue of the anterior abdominal wall... there we go. Pavel?’

Pavel stepped in and squirted water into the freshly made pocket, then backed away from the table.

‘OK.’ Twining readied the knife. ‘I’m going to nick the peritoneum, so you might want to hold your breaths for this bit.’ Whatever he did, the water bubbled and frothed in the cavity, while the stench of death got much, much worse.

Angus’s throat contracted, stomach clenching as if someone was trying to turn it over with a shovel.

DS Sharp flinched.

Monroe coughed, shifting from foot to foot.

Everyone else seemed completely unaffected.

Dr Fife leaned in towards Angus, dropping into a whisper again. ‘Steady...’

Wasn’t easy, but he swallowed down the rising tide, forehead prickling, the sweat turning chill on his back.

As the gas escaped, the body slowly deflated, leaving Douglas Healey-Robinson’s once swollen stomach slack and baggy — a miserable balloon, two weeks after the party’s over.

Twining nodded. ‘And that answers that.’ He swapped the scalpel for a much bigger, curved knife. ‘Right, let’s open him up!’

Pavel hefted the bulky, purple-black slab of liver out of Douglas’s abdomen. There can’t have been much left in there, because a sizeable array of innards was already spread across two stainless-steel trolleys. All of it dark and slimy and stinking.

After two weeks, the liver had decomposed to the point that it oozed between Pavel’s gloved fingers like some sort of beetroot jelly.

Angus wobbled. ‘Oh God...’ It was barely more than a breath, but Dr Fife squeezed his arm, leaned in close for another whisper:

‘Are you gonna barf?’

‘I’m fine...’

Deep breaths.

The liver splatched down on the scales and Angus gagged as the whole world shrank — till there was nothing in it but that seeping, foul, glistening mass. A whistling noise grew louder as warmth pushed its way through from the back of his skull, tinting everything yellow. Some sort of weird, furry, floating thing was happening to his knees. And a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

Dr Fife squeezed again. ‘You owe me.’ Then cranked his voice up to full volume, patting at his SOC suit as if it had hidden pockets. ‘Goddamnit — I’ve left my notepad in the car. I can’t work without my notepad.’ Laying it on a bit thick.

‘Are you...?’ Monroe stared at him. ‘We’re in the middle of a post-mortem!’

Pavel wiped his gloves on some tissues, turning the blue paper black. ‘We have notebooks in office. I get you one.’

‘No, I need to keep observations and insights in a very particular fashion, otherwise my system doesn’t work. I simply must have my notepad.’

‘Sorry.’ Professor Twining looked up from the remains, both arms elbow-deep in Douglas Healey-Robinson. ‘Much though I’d love to, I can’t just put everything on hold. I’ve got three more bodies to get through before lunch.’

Dr Fife snapped his fingers. ‘DC MacVicar: my keys are in locker six. Be a good little detective constable and fetch my notepad. Back seat of the green hire car’ — pointing vaguely towards the multistorey outside — ‘in that big parking garage. Might be a Ford?’

Angus blinked at him.

‘You heard the man.’ Monroe clapped his gloved hands a couple of times. ‘But for goodness’ sake: get a move on. We need all the help we can get!’

Stiff as a board, Angus marched from the room, back into the changing area. Where he struggled out of his wellies and sprinted for the toilets. Barging into the nearest cubicle, throwing the seat up — followed by everything he’d ever eaten in his whole life.

12

Angus made his way along the parking bays, past row after row after row of wobbly-looking hatchbacks, rusty estate cars, and the odd four-by-four that might have managed three-by-three at a pinch.

Why did no one visiting hospital have a nice car?

Not that he could talk.

Even a manky old Fiesta, held together with cable-ties and hope, would’ve been better than Shanks’s pony.

This floor of the multistorey was wrapped in metal cladding that hid the outside world from view, but clearly wasn’t waterproof, because the puddles stretched across the concrete, joining up to form lochans and lakes. Shimmering with oil in the gloom.

Maybe he should get another bicycle?

Trouble was: the flat wasn’t big enough to store it inside, so the little gits would probably steal it. Again.

He stopped and held Dr Fife’s keys out. Pressing the button. Doing a quick spin around to see if anything flashed its lights at him, because ‘It might be a Ford’ wasn’t exactly a lot of help.

Nothing flashed, or beeped.

Time to try Ellie again.

He wandered towards the ramp up to the next level — five down, one to go — and selected her name from his contacts. Held the phone to his ear, while he tried plipping a few more locks.

‘You’ve reached Ellie Nottingham. I can’t talk right now, but if you’ve got a breaking story for me: leave a message.’ Followed by a harsh electronic ‘Bleeeeeeep’.

‘It’s me. Again. I need you to call me back, Ellie — it’s important. OK? Soon as you get this. Bye.’

He hung up and tried one last plip.

No joy.

Angus slogged his way up the down ramp, ignoring the big red ‘NO PEDESTRIAN ACCESS!’ sign, and out onto the top layer.

They hadn’t bothered putting a roof on this level, leaving it open to the elements instead, but wrapped around in more of that waffle-metal screening. There should’ve been a view down the valley and across the river from here, maybe a nice vista of the castle, or Kings Park; instead, he was treated to a cluster of miserable concrete buildings, poking up above the screens — full of miserable people, with their miserable ailments, lying in their miserable hospital beds.

OK, so Ellie wasn’t answering her phone. Time to try a bit of lateral thinking.

He dialled the main office number.

‘Castle News and Post, Regional Newspaper of the Year, three years running. How can I direct your call, thank you?’

‘Hi, can I get Peter Ackerman, please?’

Hold music offended its way out of the phone’s speaker: a pan-pipes rendition of Status Quo’s ‘Rockin’ All Over The World’, as Angus tried the plipper again.

There can’t have been more than two dozen vehicles up here, but the first go produced nothing.

Creepy Pete’s voice scrunched out of the phone, sounding as if he had a bag of crisps on the go. ‘Fa’s this?’ Munching away.

‘Pete, it’s Angus MacVicar. Ellie about?’

‘Oh aye, sniffin’ around, are you?’ Crunch, munch, munch, crunch. ‘Well, you can put it back in your pants: she’s no’ at her desk.’

‘Any idea where she’s got to?’

‘Nah. Women, eh? She’s a bugger to pin down.’ Swear to God, you could hear him licking his lips. ‘But see when you do? Goes like a shonky washing machine on spin cycle, eh? Eh?’

Angus tightened his grip on the car keys.

As if Ellie would ever have anything to do with a greasy wee shite like Creepy Pete...

She wouldn’t. Would she?

‘Look just get her to call me, OK? Soon as she’s free. It’s important.’

He plipped the key again and a bottle-green three-door Mini flashed its lights in reply. It had ‘CAMBURN CAR HIRE’ decals down the side and a big smiley emoji on the roof.

‘Tell you: she’s got an arse you could chew for weeks, know what I—’

‘Got to go!’ Angus hung up. Looked at his phone as if it had just peed in his hand. Shuddered. Then jammed it back in his pocket. Good job the thing was in a plastic bag, because there was something... slug-sticky-slimy about it now.

Angus marched over to the Mini and opened the driver’s door.

The seat was pushed all the way forward, and a pair of Heath Robinsonesque pedal extenders filled the footwell — one attached to the accelerator, the other to the brake. No clutch, so an automatic.

But all that paraphernalia made it difficult to access the back seat from this side. He tried the passenger door, but there was nothing on the rear seat, or in the footwell, or the door pockets. Official bumf from the hire company in the glove compartment, but no notepad. Or in any of the vehicle’s little cubbyholes. Or under the seats.

He popped the boot.

One cardboard box: marked ‘法夫醫生的特別訂單’, containing dozens of rolled-up SOC suits in individual plastic wrappers. One small stepladder. And a holdall with various bits and bobs, none of which were a notepad.

Shitting hell.

He locked the car again and stood there as wind raked its claws across the parking level, head back, eyes closed.

Had to be here somewhere.

Try again.

He went back for another, more methodical rummage — splitting the car into quadrants and working his way through each of them, as if this was a crime scene.

Angus’s phone rang when he was halfway through the back seat again.

About bloody time!

He yanked the thing from his pocket, but it wasn’t Ellie’s name glowing in the middle of the screen, it was ‘MUM’.

Ah...

His thumb hovered over the button as his shoulders drooped.

Come on, he had a job to do. They were holding up the post-mortem, waiting for this stupid notepad.

Deep breath, and he let the call go through to voicemail. Then stuck his phone back in his pocket.

After all, if it was important, she’d ring back.

That didn’t make him a terrible son, did it?

Probably.

But he resumed the search anyway.

Angus clumped down the stairs and out into the blustery morning — heading back to the mortuary.

Empty.

Sodding.

Handed.

Monroe was going to kill him. So was DS Sharp. And Dr Fife too. Doubt Professor Twining would be very happy either. Nearly an hour wasted.

He drooped his way past a clump of old brick buildings with a massive concrete extension out back. Stepped onto the grass to let a cluster of nurses hurry past in their scrubs and trainers. Watched an ambulance tear out of the A&E car park with its lights and sirens blaring.

There was no point in dragging it out: if he was in for a bollocking, might as well get it over with.

Shoulders back.

Chin up.

March...

Angus scuffed to a halt.

On the other side of the crossroads, at the heart of the Castle Hill Infirmary complex, was Dr Fife. All bundled up in his greatcoat, curly hair bouncing around in the wind.

Looked as if Angus wouldn’t have to go all the way to the mortuary after all: the bollocking was coming to him.

Dr Fife scuttled across the road, Cuban heels clattering on the damp tarmac. ‘Constable.’

‘I couldn’t find your notepad.’

But Dr Fife didn’t stop to call him useless or incompetent, or a slack-jawed yokel — he kept on scuttling, straight past. ‘Is your stupid bloody city always this cold?’

Eh?

Angus turned and strode after him. ‘I said, “I couldn’t find—”’

‘That’s because it’s in my coat pocket, you idiot. Do you really think I’m unprofessional enough to attend an autopsy without my notebook?’

‘But...’ Angus pointed towards the mortuary. ‘Aren’t we going—’

‘Told them I’d seen enough to form my conclusions. No point hanging around for the whole squelchy performance.’

‘But—’

‘You seen one guy’s skull sawn open and his brain scooped out, you seen them all.’ Dr Fife dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Actually, I knew this medical examiner in New Jersey who’d show off by removing the brain with the spinal cord still attached. Strangest thing you ever saw: like Satan designed a birthday balloon.’ He glanced up at Angus. ‘Point is, we showed willing, and no one saw you blowing chunks all over the body. You’re welcome, by the way.’

Oh, for...

‘You could’ve told me it was a wild goose chase!’

A frown. ‘You know what gets me about your Fortnight Killer? He’s not very good at it.’

‘I searched that bloody car, top to bottom. Twice.’

‘Believe me, I’ve seen torture victims. The cartel people in Florida will keep you alive for days, sometimes weeks, while they go to work. Make an example of you that’ll frighten children for generations.’

‘I must’ve looked like a right twat.’

‘But our guy? He’s letting them bleed out in half an hour — forty-five minutes, tops.’

The car park loomed up ahead, in all its crappy-concrete glory.

‘Maybe he gets overexcited?’

Dr Fife cut across the corner, heels squelching in the soggy grass. ‘You read that book I gave you?’

‘Give us a chance!’

‘Read the book.’ He hauled open the door to the multistorey, pausing on the threshold. ‘Much though I hate to call your pathologist a useless sack of bullshit, someone needs to go back and review the autopsies on the first two victims. Figure out how our killer’s MO is developing.’

‘Want me to get you the PM reports?’

‘Yeah, because I love paperwork.’ He stepped inside. ‘Ah, why not? I read the summaries on the plane over... yesterday? What day is it?’

Angus followed him into the echoing stairwell. ‘Thursday.’

‘Urgh. OK: get me the full autopsy reports. And the CSI — whatever-you-call-them-here — I want those too.’ Straight past the stairs, to the door labelled ‘LIFTS TO ALL FLOORS →’, and into a cramped, grey, windowless room with a drift of empty crisp packets, Cornish pasty wrappers, and Pot Noodle containers in one corner. Because why not have your lunch in the most depressing spot possible?

Dr Fife hit the button. ‘And I want access to all your crime scenes. Let’s walk the ground, see the sights, smell the smells.’ A sly look and a raised eyebrow. ‘You’ll like that.’

Oh ha, ha.

‘It was the liver stroganoff, thank you very much. Which would’ve been a miserable enough dinner, but I was looking after you till half eleven, and it’d been sitting out all night.’ The lift dinged its arrival. ‘Not surprising I was unwell.’ The doors slid open, smooth and silent. ‘You’d’ve boaked too.’

Dr Fife clattered in. ‘But first, it’s time for an X-rated amount of caffeine. And breakfast! You got somewhere good does huevos rancheros?’

‘Huevos...?’

He reached up and poked the button for the top floor. ‘You’ll love it, settle that queasy stomach of yours right down.’

Angus grimaced at the closing doors. ‘Can’t wait...’

The stomach-rumbling scent of frying onions and sizzling batter frittered out from the hatch of Bad Bill’s Burger Bar: a converted Transit van, parked between the pillars that supported the southern end of Dundas Bridge. Its dented side panels were painted matt black, and Bad Bill had chalked up the day’s specials on them, in a multicoloured rendition of artery-hardening delights.

Bangs and clangs rang out across Queen’s Quay, as the docks got on with their work — neon-blue flashes of arc welding strobing from the last industrial unit in the row.

Dr Fife sat behind the Mini’s wheel, all bundled up, with the engine running. Frowning at the wodge of files Angus had liberated from Divisional Headquarters.

Douglas Healey-Robinson’s post-mortem photographs lay spread across the dashboard, so it was probably just as well they’d got here before the lunchtime rush. They were a sight to put you off your Double Bastard Bacon Murder Burger and chips...

Angus hurried back towards the car, carrying a hot cardboard container, a large wax-paper cup — with a lid this time — and a wodge of napkins, which meant he’d had to pin the phone between his ear and his shoulder. Giving him a distinct list to the left.

‘Can we not, Ellie? I didn’t call to talk about—’

‘No, I know that. It’s... I was going to say something yesterday, but with the murders and everything — you seemed all excited and happy, and I didn’t want to spoil it.’

‘Then don’t.’ Sidestepping a venomous seagull. ‘We need to—’

‘All I’m saying is: if you want to do something next week — you know: mark the day — I’ll help.’

No, he really didn’t.

‘He was your dad, Angus.’

That seagull was following him, eyeing the cardboard carton with avaricious yellow eyes.

‘Angus?’

He popped the container and the cup on the Mini’s roof and freed his phone. Kept hold of the napkins though, because they’d just disappear in this wind. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, OK? I want to talk about... what you said this morning.’ He ducked down for a quick peek into the car.

Dr Fife had the lid of a highlighter pen sticking out the side of his mouth like a cigar stub. The rest of the pen made fluorescent-pink streaks through the text of what looked like Councillor Mendel’s post-mortem report.

The important thing being: Dr Fife wasn’t paying any attention to what was going on outside the car.

But Angus lowered his voice, just in case. ‘You know? When we got cut off.’

Faux innocence radiated from the phone. ‘This morning?’

‘You wanted to “do me a favour”?’

‘Did I?’ Like low-fat spread wouldn’t melt.

‘God’s sake, Ellie, please!’

The seagull hopped up onto the Mini’s bonnet, head cocked to one side as it worked out how to steal the lot.

‘Urgh. You’re no fun.’

Angus put an arm around the container and glared back. Which made no impact on the evil feathery sod whatsoever. ‘Ellie!’

‘Fine. There’s going to be a big splash in tomorrow’s paper: “FBI Specialist Helps Hopeless Cops”. Front page; spread on four and five; comment — seven; a half-page vox pop; and a half-arsed opinion piece by some local D-list “celeb” wannabe I’ve never heard of.’

Well, that was just...

Yeah.

The seagull edged closer.

‘I’m giving you a chance to present the investigation’s side of the story. Cos I can tell you right now, you guys do not come out well.’

He held the phone against his chest and waved his napkins at the huge bird. ‘Go on: bugger off!’

Didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention.

Back to the phone.

‘Don’t tell me to bugger off, Angus MacVicar! I’m doing you a solid here, you ungrateful—’

‘Not you: seagull.’

‘Oh.’ The anger drained from her voice. ‘So what’s he like, then — the mysterious Dr Fife?’

‘We need you not to, OK, Ellie? We... I need you to not publish anything about this guy.’

‘Really.’ And there it was, back again. ‘You’re censoring the press, now?’

‘Look, he’s only here on condition we don’t tell anyone he’s here. If you publish: he’s gone and we’ve got two more dead bodies tomorrow.’

‘What makes you think I can—’

‘Tomorrow, Ellie! Two people.’ A shudder jiggered its way down Angus’s spine. ‘I’ve seen what this bastard does to his victims. You don’t want that happening to anyone else.’

‘Not even Slosser the Tosser?’

Two webbed feet landed on the Mini’s roof and there was Captain Greedy-Feathers, only a couple of inches away, beak gaping open.

‘WILL YOU BUGGER OFF!’

It scrambled into the air in a flurry of clattering feathers. Scrawwwwking and kyeee-kyeee-kyeeeeeing as it wheeled away.

‘Sorry. Seagull again.’ He ducked down and looked into the car.

Dr Fife stared back.

Angus held up a hand and mouthed another ‘Sorry’. Then back to the phone. ‘Come on, Ellie, I’m begging you here.’

Captain Greedy-Feathers settled on top of Bad Bill’s Burger Bar, lurking in the bridge’s shadow, glowering avian hatred in Angus’s direction.

A guy in grubby overalls scuffed past on his way to the food van; earbuds in, bum wiggling in time to the tss-tss-tsss that escaped from his ears.

Out on the river, a tiny, half-knackered fishing boat chugged past, dragging a pall of blue diesel smoke behind it.

‘Ellie?’

A huge sigh. ‘If — and this is a big if — but if I can get them to spike the story, they’re going to need something juicier than a pat on the back for doing their civic duty.’ She let the pause hang there. ‘I want an exclusive.’

Of course she did.

‘I can’t promise, but I can ask.’

‘Better get your finger out then, hadn’t you.’ The line went dead. She’d hung up.

Angus sagged against the car, head back, staring up at the grey blanket of clouds.

DCI Monroe was going to love—

The Mini let out a sharp breeeeeep! and this time, when he checked, there was Dr Fife doing a pantomime ‘Well?’

Right.

He opened the car door, grabbed the container and cup, and squeezed himself into the passenger seat. Wouldn’t have thought someone his size could fit, and yeah it was a bit tight, but it was nice enough inside — still had that new-car smell too.

Angus held out the wax-paper cup. ‘French-roast arabica cappuccino, double shot, with almond milk.’

‘Hmmph.’ Dr Fife turned back to his file, taking the coffee without looking. Or saying thank you. ‘Bet it tastes like dishwater and battery acid.’

Ungrateful sod.

Cardboard container, next. ‘And they don’t do wavy ranchers, so I got you a Kitchen Sinker.’

The coffee’s lid was cricked back and Dr Fife took an experimental sip. Grunted. ‘Could be worse. At least it’s drinkable.’

‘You taking this or not?’

There was a big theatrical sigh. Then Fife closed the PM file and accepted the carton, opening it to peer inside: one oversized Glasgow roll stuffed with a fried egg, a tattie scone, smoked bacon, slab of Lorne sausage, slice of black pudding, and a good dollop of own-brand ketchup — all topped with a slice of processed cheese. To complete the three-Michelin-star experience, Bad Bill had piled in a good handful of chips around the bun.

Angus stuck Dr Fife’s change on the horror-covered dashboard, followed by the receipt and that wodge of napkins. ‘You’re welcome.’

The forensic psychologist grimaced at his breakfast. ‘Can’t imagine why people think coronary disease is a competitive sport in Scotland.’ Hunching over the thing to risk a bite.

Manila files covered the back seat — a mixture of crime-scene reports and post-mortem results — each one marked ‘OPERATION TELEGRAM’ and ‘NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION!’ Angus gathered them up, sorting through the pile as he faced front again. ‘Find anything?’

‘Bet when you lot were cavemen, you deep-fried rocks.’ Chewing away. ‘Battered mammoth, anyone?’

‘Must be something that can help.’

Another bite. ‘What’s wrong with a nice avocado and goat’s cheese...’ Horror broke across his face. ‘God, there’s yolk going everywhere!’ Scrambling a couple of napkins off the post-mortem photos and scrubbing at his sleeve and chin. Then scowling at the eggy result. ‘Of course there’s something. There’s always something. You just gotta know where to look.’ Dr Fife twisted the Kitchen Sinker from side to side, as if working out the best angle of attack. Then went at it like a great white shark, talking with his mouth full. ‘And I was right about your pathologist being a useless nutsack: any medical examiner worth her salt would’ve raised red flags all over the place.’

There was no point rising to it, so Angus flipped through the PM file on Michael Fordyce instead. ‘There’s that winning personality of yours again.’

‘It’s a simple matter of observation.’ He pointed at Angus’s file as the page turned, exposing a photo of the remains, laid out on the cutting table — stab wounds dark as night against the pale-moon skin. ‘This guy probably thought the half-dozen three-inch screws stuck through the back of his hands was the worst thing that’d ever happened to him, but it was nothing compared to what our guy did next.’ The shark went in for another mouthful. ‘We begin with the percussive trauma — hammer blows to the elbows, forearms, collar bones, shoulder blades. None of it fatal, but by Christ that would’ve hurt. And you can scream all you like behind the gag, but no one’s coming to save you.’ A couple of chips succumbed to the feeding frenzy. ‘Then the cutting starts: short, triangular blade; narrow profile; so probably a utility knife. And that seems to trigger something. No more than two-dozen shallow slashes and boom — suddenly we’re stabbing and carving, veins and arteries, blood everywhere, only you can’t escape, you’re stuck there, screwed to the tabletop, screaming. And this whole time, the person you love most in the whole world sits right across the table watching it all. Unable to help...’

Jesus.

Angus swallowed.

The seagull glared.

And Dr Fife ripped into another egg-dribbling bite.

There couldn’t have been much left in Angus’s stomach, but what there was lurched. ‘How can you eat and—’

‘Because I do this for a living. And if you can’t detach yourself, you’ll end up in a padded cell or drinking yourself to death.’ A slurp of coffee washed down the half-chewed mouthful. ‘Then we turn to Jessica Mendel.’ He raised his eyebrows at Angus. ‘Go on, then.’

OK...

Angus closed the file on Michael Fordyce, and shuffled through the others till he got to the right one. Took a breath. Then turned to the post-mortem photos.

‘We start exactly the same way: hands screwed to the desktop, hammer, utility knife. Then boom! Carotid artery, twenty-seven stabs to the back of the head as blood fountains...’ He took a big greasy bite, the words barely making it out through chunks of sausage and black pudding. ‘Douglas Healey-Robinson.’

Angus grimaced, turned the file face down, and scooped the photographs off the dashboard.

Little flecks of food tumbled onto Dr Fife’s tie. ‘Same damn thing, all over again.’ He sooked the fingers clean on one hand, then plucked his wax-paper cup from the car’s built-in holder. ‘See, people don’t set out to be serial killers. They don’t wake up one morning and decide today’s the day to go full-on John Wayne Gacy. They just have this need that’s been festering away, back of their skulls, like an itch for years. Till finally, they just gotta scratch it.’ A sip of coffee, frowning off into the middle distance. ‘That first murder’s the culmination of months, maybe years of fantasizing. Then he goes home and relives everything, over and over: what worked, what didn’t; what made him scared, what made him hard. And he refines the fantasy to make it even better next time. To make it last.’

Angus shuffled the Healey-Robinson photos into a pile and turned them face down in his lap.

‘Only with our guy, it doesn’t: Jessica Mendel dies just as quickly as Michael Fordyce, and so does Douglas Healey-Robinson. He wants their partners to suffer, right? He shoulda learned something by now.’

‘Maybe he’s not very bright?’

Dr Fife sank his teeth in again. ‘Bright enough to outsmart you guys for six weeks.’ Catching a dribble of yolk. ‘The longer you can keep Victim A alive, the more you can torture them, the worse it is for Victim B. So why’s he so shit at it?’

The last chunks of Kitchen Sinker vanished, chased down by more coffee.

Angus returned the folders to the back seat. Not wanting to even touch them any more.

The chips went, one by one, dipped into spilled yolk and tomato sauce. Which was enough to make any sane man puke.

Chew, chew, chomp, chomp. ‘See if it was me? I would’ve googled “how to use a tourniquet” at the very least.’

He tried not to shudder as Dr Fife cleaned the cardboard container with a finger — scooping up melted cheese and sauce and greasy bits of deep-fried detritus.

‘Maybe...’ Angus frowned as that huge evil seagull dive-bombed the guy with the earbuds. ‘Maybe the rage is part of the fun? He hammers and he cuts, and it gets him excited, and the rage is... I don’t know. Like him climaxing or something.’

‘It’s a thought, anyway.’ Dr Fife shut the carton and scrubbed his hands on napkin after napkin, till they were slightly less greasy-sticky, then stuck his phone into the little plastic mount thing slotted into one of the air vents. Leaving slick fingerprints on the screen as he brought up the satnav and poked in an address. ‘First, we go check out Dr Fordyce’s place. See if we can’t get a feel for our guy.’

‘Sure you don’t want to go back to the station for a pool car?’ Clicking the seatbelt into place.

‘And give up my independence?’ Dr Fife started the car, revving the Mini’s engine a couple of times, like a boy racer. ‘Besides, you drive like an asshole and I’d like to get back to the States in one piece.’

13

It was weird.

Back when he was a kid, Fiddersmuir always made him homesick. Not for the crummy wee flat in Kingsmeath — for the place they had to leave behind in Aberdeen. OK, Fiddersmuir was far more out-in-the-country than Cults ever was, but it had the same feel of well-heeled wealth with its big houses and large gardens. Or it did if you stayed away from the more modern bits, which were all bungalows and turning circles. Plus it was right on the edge of Braecairn Forest: lair of monsters and elves and dragons and wee boys who’d lost everything and been moved down to a horrible flat in a horrible part of a horrible city.

And it was so much brighter, up here, beyond the lip of the valley. Free of the oppressive gloom that coated Oldcastle like black slime in a stagnant pond.

Mind you, going by all the Plot-For-Sale signs that sprouted in the yellow-grey fields, it looked as if Fiddersmuir was in for a crop of yet more bland, tiny, overpriced houses.

The developers had already laid a Harvest Road — a lopsided curl of tarmac that ended in a roundabout to nowhere.

Dr Fife took a right, onto Burnett Crescent, and Angus went back to the post-mortem file on Michael Fordyce. Avoiding the photos, because he wasn’t an idiot.

Why did pathologists have to talk in medical doublespeak? Didn’t help that they couched everything in ‘conceivably’s and ‘possibly’s, not wanting to be pulled up in court for saying something useful.

The car came to a halt and Dr Fife killed the engine. ‘Well, this is... lovely.’ He removed his phone from the dash-mounted holder and climbed out, letting in a jostle of cold air as the wind shoved at the car. ‘You coming, or what?’

Angus shut the file and rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry.’ Undid his seatbelt. ‘Did you see anything in the PM results about needle marks?’

‘Our guy didn’t inject them with anything; it would’ve shown up on the tox report.’

Angus extracted himself from the passenger seat then reached in to grab a second file from the back: ‘FORDYCE CRIME SCENE’. Clutching them tight as the wind tried to rip both from his grasp. ‘It’s not him putting stuff in I’m worried about.’

Instead of the usual cloned wee houses, someone had put up a line of apartment buildings — not tall enough to be blocks of flats — in a semi-Scottish-Baronial style, with crenellations and corbie steps.

There was a strange randomness to the blocks, with square and rectangular bits sticking out. Like a game of Tetris gone horribly wrong.

The development sat opposite a scabby expanse of grass and reeds masquerading as an ‘EXCITING DEVELOPMENT OPPORTUNITY WITH OUTLINE PERMISSION FOR 120 HOMES!’ The hoarding was falling to bits, though, so it’d been there for a while.

Angus checked the crime-scene file, then pointed. ‘Eight C.’

According to a sign, there was a car park at the back of the building, but it clearly wasn’t big enough, because several small cars were abandoned out here, parked with two wheels on the pavement.

Dr Fife bundled himself into his greatcoat, holding the collar shut with one hand as he clomped along. ‘What, you think he’s some sort of vampire, drawing blood? Didn’t you have one of those already? Couple years ago?’

‘No, I—’

‘You did.’ Lumbering up the stairs towards a door with a large cast-iron ‘8’ beside it. ‘There was a true crime podcast: Kingdom of the Bloodsmith. I listened to it on a stakeout. Half-assed sensationalist crap.’ He ducked into the shelter of a tiny portico, stomping his feet and blowing into cupped hands.

Angus would’ve joined him, but it was too small to take both of them. ‘That’s not what I—’

‘Any chance we can get a move on? I’m freezing my nuts off here.’

Angus pulled the bundle of keys from his pocket — all signed for, and labelled with little cardboard tags that fluttered in the wind like tethered moths. He slipped the one marked ‘FORDYCE ~ MAIN DOOR’ into the lock and pushed it open.

The stairwell was a lot plainer than the outside: magnolia walls, concrete steps, and a metal balustrade. Cobwebs blurring the upper corners, with a smattering of dead flies in them. A drift of takeaway leaflets on a small ledge. Two bland, flat doors leading off to Apartments A and B — one of which boasted a serious number of locks. The sound of a kid’s TV show, turned up too loud, vibrating out from somewhere in the building.

But at least it didn’t smell of wee.

Not that Dr Fife was impressed. ‘Is all of Oldcastle this miserable?’

Angus stepped past him and headed up the stairs. ‘If you hate it here so much, why did you come?’

‘This is where the first victims lived.’

‘Not here. Here: Oldcastle.’

The stairs doglegged around to the left, and when Angus looked over the banister, there was Dr Fife — struggling to keep up, pink-faced and already breathing hard.

‘Call it... a moment... of weakness.’

Because of the wonky-lump architecture, the landing had three doors — one for each apartment and a glazed one that led to a small patio with stairs down to the car park. Which explained why people had parked out front. The rains had turned three-quarters of it into a lake.

Apartment C was still sealed off behind a cross of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. Angus tore it down then went hunting through the tags for the right key. ‘No, look — the Fortnight Killer tortures them, but only for an hour or so, right? Before killing them? What if he’s...’ There it was. Angus slipped the key into the lock. ‘Ever heard of something called andreenacoxing?’

Dr Fife staggered onto the landing and slumped sideways against the balustrade, wheezing and coughing. ‘Why... do people... always have... to die... upstairs?’

‘I heard, if you torture someone you raise their adrenalin levels, then you can harvest that from their spines and sell it.’

‘Oh, you mean adrenochroming... and it’s the kinda... conspiracy theory... bullshit... QAnon dickweeds... lap up... like spilt lube.’

‘But I heard it was—’

‘Think it through.’ Dr Fife waved a hand, taking in the stairwell and the world beyond. ‘There’s a global conspiracy... to torture kids and... sell their body fluids?... And the only people... who can see the truth... are social-media halfwits... who all wear tinfoil underwear... in case the CIA are monitoring their balls?’

A sniff. ‘Just a suggestion.’

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Wow.

The hall was completely bare: no coats, no coat hooks. No boots, no shoes, just a sisal mat, an ankle-high beech rack thing, and laminate floor.

The first door opened on a minimalist bathroom, the second: a minimalist bedroom. Then a minimalist study, a minimalist kitchen, and finally a lounge/dining room — which was the minimalistest of them all. It gave the whole place a... sterile feel, which was kind of ironic, given what had happened here.

A small white leather sofa divided the room in two. In front of it was a flatscreen TV, a white TV unit, and a glass-topped coffee table. The other half was home to a row of Ikea cabinets and the small dining table from the crime-scene photos, all of it grubby with a patina of fingerprint powder. The oatmeal carpet still had dimples in it from the common-approach walkway, but even though the scene examiners had taken it with them, they’d left the bloodstains and grubby grey footprints behind.

Angus put his hands in his pockets, not touching anything. ‘Speaking of social media — I tried to find you on Facebook. Thought I’d send a friend request, as we’re working together.’

Dr Fife limped into the lounge. ‘My closet’s bigger than this.’

‘Only there was no sign of you, so I tried Twitter and Bindle and—’

‘I got better things to do with my time than post pictures of my breakfast and beg randos for likes.’ He ran a finger along the couch, clearing a white stripe through the grey. ‘Don’t think the neat freaks who lived here would approve.’ Stepping into the middle of the room and turning slowly, frowning at everything. ‘Tell me what you see, Angus.’

OK...

‘Loads of blood?’ Angus did a three-sixty of his own. ‘How can you not be on social media?’

‘Try harder. Look at the scene like it’s a puzzle’ — making a circle with his index finger — ‘what’s present’ — he twisted the circle so it pointed at the floor — ‘and what’s missing?’

Angus went around again.

OK: blood on the wall behind the table, blood on the ceiling, blood on one half of the Ikea units. Which was understandable: you torture someone to death, that crap gets everywhere...

He stopped turning. ‘Where’s all the footprints? Not the dirty ones — that’ll be the first responder and whoever declared death. Where’s the bloody footprints?’

A raised eyebrow from Dr Fife. ‘Because?’

‘You do something like this, it gets on your clothes, it gets on your shoes. You’d tramp it all over the place.’

‘Now look under the table.’

It was mostly clean on the side facing the couch, but the other side? Like someone had tangoed through an abattoir.

‘The footprints just stop.’ Angus straightened up. ‘And unless the Fortnight Killer levitated out of here—’

‘There we go!’ Grinning like a parent whose kid went potty for the first time. ‘And what can we hypothesize from that?’

There had to be a reason, right? Footprints don’t just stop, unless...

Angus nodded. ‘He’s set up some sort of changing area in here. Somewhere you can strip off your bloody clothes and shoes without getting anything on the carpet.’

‘And that’s what we mean when we say “organized serial killer”. Our guy’s been planning this for a long time.’

Maybe Angus was quite good at this after all?

He paced in front of the table. ‘You’re leaving one body behind, but you’re taking the other away. So you’ve brought a body-bag or something with you. Plastic sheeting?’ Made sense. Ohh, and if you did that: ‘Maybe you could repurpose the changing area? After all, it’s got to be water-slash-blood-proof anyway.’

‘And how do you get Dr Fordyce’s body out of here? She wasn’t exactly petite — not with all those muscles.’

Simple: ‘Chuck her over your shoulder.’

‘Yes, thank you, Paul Bunyan; most of us aren’t built like a forklift truck.’ Dr Fife rested his bum against the back of the sofa. ‘We would have to drag the body out, and what don’t we see in this nice oatmeal carpet, where everyone who enters has to take off their shoes and put them in that silly, prissy little rack by the front door?’

Warmth seeped through Angus’s cheeks and ears. Bit close to home, that. ‘Drag marks.’

‘So either our killer’s a gorilla troll like you, or there’s two of them.’

Angus opened his mouth, then closed it again.

That was genius.

‘It’s how he controls his victims! You need one hand to hold the screwdriver, one to hold the screw, and a friend to hold the victim’s hands in place.’

‘Knew you’d get there eventually.’ Dr Fife beamed again. ‘Actually, it’s more likely to be a cordless drill-driver, but other than that you’re bang on the nail. Well done. The Fortnight Killer has an accomplice.’

Bloody hell.

Angus puffed his cheeks out. ‘Does the Boss know?’

‘Gimme a chance: I’ve only been here five minutes.’ He wandered from the room, fingertips tracing along the wall. ‘I take it your fellow idiots were bright enough to check for CCTV?’

‘Bound to.’ Angus followed, in time to see him stroll into the study.

‘Question is: where’s he taking them, and why? Dr Fordyce, Councillor Mendel, Kevin Healey-Robinson. Could just leave their bodies at the scene and be done with it. Why go to all the extra effort, and risk?’

Angus stopped in the doorway.

It was the least austere room in the place, but that might have had more to do with necessity than aesthetics. The clean lines of three white Ikea bookshelves were spoiled by medical and accounting books. A pair of framed degree certificates blemished the walls. An uncluttered desk, dusty with fingerprint powder.

Dr Fife tilted his head on one side. ‘No computer?’

‘Erm...’ Into the file again, flipping through the productions inventory. ‘Looks like it was one of those all-in-one monitor-and-processor Apple jobs. Says here it’s with the Forensic IT Unit.’ Urgh... Hard not to grimace at that. ‘Which means we can expect a result sometime next year. Or the year after. Half the IT team’s got long Covid, and the other half’s bloody useless.’

‘Normally, you see a multi-victim crime scene, the perp leaves the bodies behind. Maybe stages a revolting little tableau before he goes.’ Fife pulled out the office chair on its silent castors and clambered into it. ‘There was one guy I caught: Bradley McCarthy, killed a family of six. Sat Mom, Pop, and the three kids round the dining table like they were eating Granny. She’s laying there, on her back, all opened up like a blood-soaked Christmas turkey. Everyone with their own portion of breast and thigh.’ He swivelled the chair from side to side, head cocked, eyes narrowed on the middle distance. ‘This, though: killing one, making the other watch. Then spiriting them away... That’s kinda special.’ Swivel, swivel, swivel — still squinting off into space. ‘What would you do with Dr Fordyce, Angus? If you were a first-time serial killer, what would you do with your victim’s wife?’

Easy: ‘Kill her.’

The swivelling stopped. ‘She’s a pillar of the establishment, for God’s sake. Her kind think you’re scum. You’re beneath her. The whole point here is to punish her!’

Ah, right.

So, what would be the worst thing you could possibly do to someone who’d been through all that?

‘I’d... make her relive it, before I killed her. I can remember every single wound I’ve inflicted, but I want to hear her tell it. I want to hear what it’s like to watch the person you love die. Means I get an extra wee frisson of excitement before I do the same to her.’

‘Well, aren’t you a sick little puppy.’ The swivelling started again. ‘And “frisson”? Better watch out, Detective Constable, people might think you’ve got some brains to go with all that brawn.’ He huffed out a long breath, then hopped down from the chair. ‘Think we’re done here. Wouldn’t mind a rummage through that computer, though — if your IT morons ain’t gonna touch it. Any chance?’

‘And screw with the chain of evidence? PF would throw a fit.’ He followed Dr Fife out into the hall, where the forensic psychologist opened the front door and had a good peer at the lock. Then the handle. Then the frame. Then closed the thing and opened it three, four, five times.

Angus waited till he’d finished. ‘We already know the locks weren’t picked and the door wasn’t forced.’

‘Never trust someone else to do a thorough job. You’d be shocked how many morons wear a badge.’ Smile. ‘No offence.’ Dr Fife stepped out into the hall, turned around and knocked. Stood there, as if he was expecting something to happen.

‘Erm...’ Angus shuffled his feet. ‘Come in?’

‘Exactly! They let him in. They opened this door wide and said, “Please: come inside and murder us!”’ Dr Fife’s heels clopped on the concrete landing, all the way to the glazed door, pulling what looked like a thick silver pen from an inside pocket. ‘What’s a PF?’

Angus joined him on the landing, locking the door to Apartment C with the borrowed keys. ‘Procurator Fiscal. Are we telling the Boss there’s two of them or not?’

Silence.

He was standing there, staring out through the door at the windswept patio with its swirl of leaves and puddled stairs down to the flooded car park.

‘Dr Fife?’

‘Be a good sidekick and check upstairs. See if you can spot a security camera anywhere. Maybe have a quick word with the neighbours.’ He poomed the end off the pen and tipped a fat cigar into his palm. ‘I’m away for a think.’ But when he tried the door handle nothing happened — either jammed solid, or locked. ‘Does nothing in this goddamned city work?’ Then Dr Fife stuck the cigar in his gob and stomped off down the stairs.

Leaving Angus behind to do the grunt work.

‘Lovely.’

Deep breath.

Sigh.

Who’d be a sidekick?

And up the stairs he went.

Angus thumped down the last flight of stairs and out onto the ground floor, into the lung-scraping fug of Dr Fife’s cigar.

It couldn’t still be the same one, not after over half an hour.

But there he was, leaning against the stairwell handrail, one foot up on the bottom step, puffing away. Looking disgustingly pleased with himself.

Well, that would stop right now.

‘Hoy!’ Angus folded his arms and loomed. ‘You can’t do that inside.’

A grin. ‘Can’t I?’ Puff, puff, puff — thickening the fogbank. ‘I’ll have to remember that.’

Glowering at him didn’t make any difference, so Angus knocked on the door to Apartment B instead. ‘No one upstairs saw anything. Not even the auld mannie who smells of bin juice and hates foreigners.’

The grin widened, engorging the cigar’s angle where it poked out of Dr Fife’s mouth. ‘Oh no. Whatever will we do?’

No reply from Apartment B, so it got another go — the official police knock this time. Boom, boom, boom...

And when that didn’t work, Angus wrote a quick note on one of his Police Scotland business cards and slipped it through the letterbox. ‘Where now, Councillor Mendel’s?’

‘Oh, let’s not be so hasty, Constable.’ Pointing across the hall. ‘Still got one apartment left, remember?’

Typical.

Would it have killed him to talk to the householder while Angus was upstairs visiting everyone else? Instead of lazing about, stinking the place up with that stupid cigar?

Bet Watson got this all the time.

Bet Holmes never lifted a finger to actually help out.

Angus grunted, turned, and raised his fist to knock on Apartment A’s door. No messing about this time, straight to the police officer’s hard three—

‘Aren’t you going to ring the bell?’

God’s sake.

Fine.

He poked a finger into the glowing circle, and cheery, chirping birdsong warbled out from somewhere inside. Because why have a...

Wait a minute.

Angus edged closer to the door, staring at the doorbell.

Oh, you wee beauty.

He flicked through the Fordyce crime-scene file — going back and forward through the paperwork, but there was no mention of it at all.

Bloody hell.

Dr Fife pulled on a faux-English accent. ‘By Jove, I think he’s got it!’

They’d probably just cracked the case...

14

Angus pressed the bell again, kicking off another dawn chorus inside the apartment.

Still no response.

One more go, holding his thumb down till the birdsong got to the end of its recording and looped back to the beginning: tweeting and chirruping and trilling and answer the buggering door for Christ’s sake...

The birds were on their third encore when a muffled voice came trembling through the wood. ‘Who is it? I’ve got a big dog in here! I’ll call the police!’

‘Hello? Mrs...’ Angus checked the list of residents. ‘McManus? My name’s Detective Constable MacVicar.’ Producing his warrant card and holding it up to the spy hole. Then the doorbell. ‘You can call the station and make sure I’m real, if you like?’

The only sound was Dr Fife, puffing away on his cigar — the end fizzing as he inhaled.

Finally a click rang out, followed by a clack, rattle, clack, and clunk, before the door eased open a couple of inches. Held in place by a pair of much-thicker-than-normal chains. Exposing the business end of three mortice locks in addition to the five-point security mechanism built into the door itself.

Looked as if Mrs McManus was keen on her security.

She peered out at them through the gap. A little old lady, with thinning grey hair, in a ‘GARDENERS DO IT IN FLOWERBEDS!’ sweatshirt, baggy denim skirt, tan tights and Clarks sandals. Wobbly fingers grasped the glasses hanging on a string around her neck, and pulled them on so she could blink at Angus’s warrant card.

Then the door clunked shut, followed by more rattling, before opening all the way this time. ‘It’s about poor Sarah and Michael, isn’t it? I heard on the radio you caught a man last night! How could he do something so horrible?’ Every time she moved a tiny pale puff of animal hair floated out into the hallway.

‘Mrs McManus, you... All the extra security’ — pointing at the locks — ‘is this new? Did you put it in after what happened upstairs?’

She nodded, setting free yet more hairy wisps. ‘My Clint did it for me. He’s a good boy: a solutions architect for a global IT company!’ The proud little smile soured. ‘But his taste in men is terrible.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But did he install the lock and doorbell after...’ Angus looked towards the ceiling, then back again. ‘Or before?’

Please, please, please, please...

‘Oh, he came round and put my new locks in the very day after we heard.’ Pressing a palm against her chest. ‘He’s always worried about me, living here on my own! What if the Fortnight Killer comes back?’

Bugger.

And they’d been so close.

Wasn’t easy, hiding the disappointment. ‘No, no. It’s... Clint sounds like a good son.’ One last lingering gaze at the doorbell. ‘I suppose it was too much to hope for.’

The smile returned, creasing dimples into her cheeks. ‘If you like I can give you his phone number? You could meet up for a drink? Or a nice romantic dinner?’ Looking Angus over like a freshly plucked chicken. ‘I think he’d like you.’

What?

Yeah...

Angus puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s very... kind of you, Mrs McManus, but—’

Dr Fife slapped him on the arse.

‘Hey!’

‘He’d be delighted to get Clint’s number. He’s just been telling me how terribly lonely it is, being a policeman.’

Angus stared at him. ‘Now wait a—’

‘Shut up.’ Dr Fife shouldered his way forward, pushing Angus out of the way. ‘Mrs McManus, you said Clint installed the locks after it happened; but the doorbell’s been there a lot longer, hasn’t it.’

She clearly wasn’t expecting to see someone like Dr Fife standing on her doorstep, because she blinked down at him for what felt like a long, long time.

Then shook herself out of it. ‘Oh, ages and ages. There were burglaries, and Clint said you couldn’t be too careful.’

‘There we go!’ Dr Fife rubbed his hands together, cigar standing to attention. ‘Now, we just need to come in and take a look at the footage.’

She pursed her lips, eyes fixed on the thing smouldering away between his teeth.

He took it out, holding the cigar closer so she could get a good look. ‘Does this bother you?’

A wee sigh brought with it the sweet, buttery scent of Werther’s Original. ‘Reminds me of my Albert. He used to smoke one every Sunday after dinner, as a special treat.’

‘Excellent.’ Dr Fife stepped forward, but Mrs McManus didn’t budge.

Instead, she folded her arms, hoiking up her bosoms as she scowled down her nose at him. ‘I made the miserable sod stand out in the garden. Stinking, horrible things.’ She jerked her head towards the main door, releasing a swirling miasma of fine hairs. ‘You can come back when you’ve finished. And not before.’

Mrs McManus’s apartment was a lot nicer than the bleak uncluttered crime scene upstairs. Her living room was filled with dark furniture, every surface covered with knick-knacks and porcelain figurines and glass fish and wee wooden things that looked a bit like mice from a distance. The walls were festooned with framed family photos, but pride of place — above the fake mantelpiece and fake fire — was a fake oil painting of a corgi dressed as Henry VIII.

An identical, though naked, corgi wheezed away on a rainbow hearthrug, licking its bits. Surprisingly difficult to ignore as it schlurped away.

Angus shifted on the floral-patterned couch, focusing on the TV instead — burbling away to itself in the corner of the room.

It was tuned to one of the rolling news channels, where a cheery-looking spud in a suit and tie waved at his weather map. ‘...which means it’s likely Storm Findlay will hit slightly further south than expected tomorrow, so watch out for travel disruption in those high winds.’

Dr Fife sulked in one of the armchairs, feet up on a little footstool, hair even curlier than usual after being made to finish his cigar outside in the rain. He narrowed his eyes at Angus and made a wee snorting noise. ‘“Adrenochroming.”’

‘In fact, there’s an amber warning in place across the Central Belt and we’re likely to see some local flooding as the day moves on.’

‘At least I’m trying, OK?’

‘So do take care if you’re out and about.’

‘Think it through, Constable — what sort of idiot’s shooting up tortured-kid adrenaline? How many diseases are you gonna get? A billionaire’s risking hepatitis, syphilis, and HIV for something like that?’

‘...best of the weather will be in the northeast, where it’s going to be unseasonably warm and dry. Temperatures in Aberdeen and Oldcastle could even get as high as thirteen degrees...’

Angus poked the couch. ‘If it’s a global trade worth millions, how come a lab can’t purify it? Or maybe they test the kids for blood-borne diseases before they torture them?’

‘...perhaps catch a scattered shower or two, but only if you’re very unlucky.’

‘Don’t be an asshole.’ Brushing a soggy ringlet from his forehead. ‘See, that’s how conspiracy theories get you. Soon as you start trying to justify this snake-oil bullshit, you’re halfway there.’

‘Into Saturday, and those winds are going to fall away, but there’s still this area of low pressure...’

The dog stopped cleaning its undercarriage and sagged there, panting at them. Grinning, as if their bickering was the best entertainment it’d had all week. Then went back to schlurping.

Angus cleared his throat. ‘How did you know?’

‘Not the first time I’ve dealt with conspiracy-spouting—’

‘No: the doorbell. You knew it wasn’t new. That’s why you were being so unbearably smug out there.’

‘...unsettled weather from lunchtime across most of the country, but the good news is that by about eight o’clock...’

‘Elementary, my dear MacVicar. There’s at least two layers of paint visible on the thing’s plastic casing — where it’s not been masked off properly last time they redecorated. You just have to know how to look at—’

‘Here we go.’ Mrs McManus shuffled in, carrying a tea tray laden down with three china cups, a teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, a plate of fruit scones, and a battered iPad. She paused, frowning at the ancient corgi still polishing its bits. ‘Missy! The nice policemen don’t want to see you doing that.’

Schlurp, schlurp, schlurp.

Mrs McManus placed the tea tray on the coffee table, then hunted out the remote from beneath a pile of Gardeners’ World magazines and pointed it at the telly.

‘...but keep an eye on this new weather system, moving in off the Atlantic. That’s likely to—’

‘You’ll have to excuse Miss Garland, she’s got absolutely no decorum.’ Pouring the tea, through a strainer, into a delicate cup. Eyebrows raised at Angus. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

Those scones looked good. Nice and plump and full of raisins.

‘Thank you, Mrs McManus.’

She was clearly a bit psychic, because she put a buttered scone on a wee side plate and handed it over with the tea.

And he was right about the scone. ‘Mmmm, lovely.’

She poured another one. ‘And for you?’

Dr Fife nodded. ‘Black. Lemon if you’ve got it.’

‘We have milk and sugar.’

He shrank in his armchair. ‘Black’s perfect. Thank you, Mrs McManus.’

‘And no shoes on the furniture.’

He snatched his boots off the footstool, leaving his lower legs dangling over the edge of the seat. Which didn’t look all that comfortable. ‘Sorry.’

Didn’t think it was actually possible, but Dr Fife genuinely seemed chastened. Humbled even. Which had to be a first.

Mrs McManus sniffed, then handed him his tea and scone.

Soon as he was eating, and making appreciative noises, she nodded. Opened the iPad. And poked at the screen. Before handing it to Angus, because clearly he was her favourite. Putting on a saucy-old-lady voice and batting her eyelashes. ‘Maybe I should’ve deleted my browser history.’

‘I won’t look. Swear.’

An old-fashioned, black-and-white webpage filled the screen: ‘WHOISATMUMSDOOR.CMCMANUS.DUNDASITWEBSPHERE.COM/?SV=22&P=DASHBOARD’. No fancy graphics or buttons, just a list of dates — in reverse chronological order, with today at the top — each one an underlined link.

Mrs McManus sighed. ‘Not that there’s anything dodgy in there. Unless Alan Titchmarsh in a cardigan gets your knickers fizzing.’

Angus scrolled, working his way back through time. ‘Erm, Mrs McManus? There’s nothing in the police files about your doorbell. Did no one ask about it?’

She settled into the other armchair and poured for herself. ‘Oh yes. I spoke to a nice detective constable about it. Big lass. Needed her roots done. Not fat-big: big-big, like you’ — Mrs McManus held her hands a good three feet apart — ‘with the shoulders.’ She stood, taking her tea over to the cluttered mantelpiece, where she popped her glasses on again and dipped into a Toby jug shaped like Charlie Dimmock. ‘But there was a problem with the server, and Clint was in Belgium, and I promised to get in touch soon as it was fixed, and...’ Her mouth drooped at the edges. ‘And I forgot.’

She pulled a Police Scotland business card from the jug and held it out, the other hand covering her lips as her forehead pinched.

Angus took the card. ‘DC BONNIE LINTON.’

Name seemed familiar. Not entirely sure why, though.

Mrs McManus turned her back on the room. ‘I’m such a silly old fool.’

‘It’s OK.’ Dr Fife hopped down from the armchair and patted her on the arm, voice soft and kind. ‘We all make mistakes.’ Then shuffled over beside Angus, leaning on the sofa and frowning at the iPad’s screen. ‘Soon as you’re ready.’

Angus’s finger slid up the smooth glass, setting the list birling away until the beginning of February appeared. And there it was: ‘FRIDAY, 2ND FEB →’. The day Dr and Mr Fordyce met the Fortnight Killer.

He tapped the screen and the list of days disappeared, replaced by another one, made up of fifty or sixty filenames, each one linking to a timestamped video.

Dr Fife pointed. ‘Start with the last one.’

The hall outside Mrs McManus’s front door appeared, slightly distorted through a fisheye lens. Then the main door swung open and in shambled Mrs McManus and Miss Garland, returning from what must’ve been a late-night walk. There was sound, but it was all tinny and pretty much inaudible. Even whacking the iPad’s volume up full didn’t help.

The real Mrs McManus peered over Angus’s other shoulder. ‘We like to have our constitutional last thing before bed, don’t we, Missy?’ Lowering her voice to a whisper, presumably so Miss Garland wouldn’t hear. ‘Don’t want any night-time accidents.’

He closed the video, and tapped the next file:

A man and woman staggered in, laden down with shopping bags. Both dressed in jeans and heavy coats. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but most of his hair had already abandoned its post. She sported a bobble hat and a disappointed pout.

‘Bob and Dianne. His mum’s in a home with dementia. Dianne’s got a funny womb, but they’re trying IVF.’

Soon as the door closed the bickering started — all jerky chins and bared teeth as they disappeared into the apartment opposite.

Mrs McManus tapped Angus on the shoulder. ‘Ooh, I know: would you like to see my Clint?’

Her what?

Dr Fife stared at her, both eyebrows up.

Oh, her Clint. Her son. The systems architect.

But before Angus could decline the offer, she was off.

A big grey blob filled the screen, then faded into the middle distance where it transformed into the back of Mrs McManus’s head. The rest of her appeared as she hurpled away from the camera, with Miss Garland trotting along at the end of her lead. Heading out for their no-night-time-accidents walk.

A weary woman in a faux-fur coat trudged past the camera and lumbered her way upstairs. Yawning.

Angus pointed. ‘Apartment D: Miss Jensen; does the money-slash-business show on Castlewave FM. Took two Valium and zonked out for the night.’

Mrs McManus reappeared in the living room, holding out a framed photo of a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard, in a shirt and tie, at some sort of presentation dinner — holding up a pointy award in Perspex and stainless steel.

‘Well, that is a coincidence!’ Dr Fife nudged Angus with an elbow. ‘He looks just your type, doesn’t he?’

Oh, ha sodding ha.

‘My Clint came top of his class at Dundas University, you know. He likes horse riding and sea fishing and he’s a huge Oldcastle Warriors fan.’

Took some doing, but Angus forced a smile, and clicked on the next link.

A woman, dressed in a soggy blue tracksuit, staggered through the main door, puffing and panting, face shiny and puce. She stood there, hunched over and steaming — a headtorch making a puddle of light around her mud-spattered trainers.

‘Poor Molly’s been struggling to lose the baby weight, especially since her John ran off with a traffic warden. Apartment E.’

A much-fresher-looking Molly-From-Apartment-E jogged down the stairs, pausing to run on the spot while she checked her sports-watch-fitness-tracker thing, before clicking on her headtorch, hauling the door open, and boldly setting forth into the evening gloom.

Mrs McManus hugged her son’s photo — his face pressed against her sweatshirted bosom. ‘It’s just a shame Clint’s always drawn to these broken people. His last boyfriend, Mark, was nice enough, but oh my Lord, the things he came out with!’

The latest star on What Happens in the Stairwell was a woman, wearing what Mum’s catalogues liked to call ‘active leisurewear’ — early thirties, medium-height, straight nose, glasses, with a messenger bag slung diagonally across her chest. Her brown hair was stuffed under a red baseball cap with something written on it. No idea what, though, because she didn’t look left or right as she marched over to the main door and out of the building.

‘Oh, according to Mark the Earth’s flat, but we’re all too brainwashed by the mainstream media to realize it. I said: “Well, if that’s true, why didn’t I fall off when I won that round-the-world cruise?”’ She lowered her voice as if about to impart some flat-world-shaking secret. ‘You had to say why Branston Beans are best, in twenty words or less.’ Then back to normal again. ‘But Mark swore blind that ships and aeroplanes just go round and round the edges.’

Wow. Clint really did have crap taste in men.

The same woman entered the building and went straight to Apartment B, dipped into her messenger bag, and came out with a handful of fliers. Popped one through the letterbox.

‘And don’t get me started on his silly “Why NASA faked the moon landings” nonsense.’

The flier woman crossed the hall, giving the doorbell’s camera a distorted close-up, making her nose look even longer than it was. It also revealed what was written on her baseball cap: ‘MAKE PIZZA GREAT AGAIN!’

Then she was bounding upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Off to dole out more junk mail.

Mrs McManus put down her cup and examined the pot. ‘Would you boys like some more tea?’

‘That would be lovely, Mrs McManus.’ Anything to distract her from playing matchmaker.

She poured Angus’s tea first, throwing in a wink for good measure.

This time, the people stumbling in from the cold February evening didn’t need an introduction from Mrs McManus — they were familiar faces to anyone who’d been paying any attention to the news over the last month and a half. Dr Sarah Fordyce and her husband, Michael. Coming home for the last time.

They looked happy, all swaddled up in matching parkas, noses and ears pink from the cold. He was cradling a big plastic bag in his arms, with the Punjabi Castle logo on it.

‘Sarah and Michael.’ Mrs McManus blinked, eyes glistening in the iPad’s glow as she welled up. ‘Oh, I can’t look.’ She grabbed the empty scone plate and bustled off.

Onscreen, the Fordyces kissed.

Then raced upstairs, laughing.

Angus’s shoulders dipped.

They seemed nice, even if their flat was horribly bleak.

And a few hours later, they were dead.

Next up was a pizza-delivery guy, complete with one of those big padded backpacks in the shape of a cube — the Pizzageddon logo was plastered all over it, another one on his cap. It was on his jacket too. And the two pizza boxes in his hands, carried like a sacrificial offering to the gods of Can’t Be Arsed Cooking Tonight. Even his trousers were striped with red, white, and green.

He was maybe late twenties? Just shy of six feet, wide face, prominent ears, shoulder-length hair, and a stubble/beard combo. The kind of guy who wouldn’t have looked out of place fronting a rock band. Not a very successful one though, or he wouldn’t be dressed like a bell-end and doing this for a living.

Straight past the camera and up the stairs he went.

Mrs McManus and Miss Garland made their third appearance, hobbling inside after another constitutional. The woman and her dog both looking their age: tired and cold and lonely.

Maybe her system-analyst son wasn’t the catch she thought he was.

Angus shook his head. ‘Beginning to think we got our hopes up for nothing.’

No response from Dr Fife, though. He just stood there, squinting at the screen, forehead all wrinkled and creased. Chewing on his bottom lip.

Mrs McManus and Miss Garland headed out for their walk, the wee corgi straining at the leash, dancing about, excited to be off on a new adventure. More like a puppy than an OAP.

Which was sweet.

A postie trotted down the stairs, Royal Mail pouch bouncing against his leg as he made for the door.

Angus sat back on the couch. ‘And that’s us all the way back to lunchtime.’ He gave the room a half-arsed shrug. ‘Worth a try, though, wasn’t it?’ His finger drifted up to close the browser, but Dr Fife’s hand snapped out and slapped his wrist. ‘Hey!’

‘Go back.’ Swiping a thumb on the screen. ‘There.’

The delivery guy shoved in through the main door, carried his pizzas past the camera and off up the stairs.

Dr Fife minimized the video, then clicked on the one immediately before it in the list:

Dr and Mr Fordyce bundled in from the cold, with their Indian carry-out. A kiss, then, laughing, they climbed the stairs to be tortured to death.

‘Thirty-four minutes later.’ The toast-rack creases smoothed across Dr Fife’s brow. His mouth twitched into a smile that bloomed into a grin. ‘He doesn’t go out again.’ Poking the screen.

The pizza-delivery man entered the building, carrying two boxes in his hands, crossed the hall, and disappeared upstairs.

Dr Fife thumped Angus on the arm. ‘The guy comes in, but he never goes out!’ Then Fife was off, bustling from the room.

Great.

Angus grimaced at Miss Garland. ‘The man’s a total nightmare.’ But he wrestled free from the sofa’s chintzy embrace and followed him, down the hall and into a cosy kitchen full of travel-the-world tea towels and biscuit tins in the shape of corgis.

Mrs McManus was standing over the sink, propped up by the worktop, shoulders quivering. Barely making a sound.

‘It’s OK.’ Dr Fife took her hand. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

She gave a little hiccupy breath. Sniffed. ‘I forgot to call... the policewoman. If... If I wasn’t such a... stupid old bat, maybe those other... those other people wouldn’t have died!’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Voice gentle as he stroked her arm. ‘Sometimes this is just how life works.’

‘I’m so... I’m so sorry.’

‘Hey, you’re helping now, right? Course you are.’ He glanced back at Angus. ‘Mrs McManus, can my friend here borrow your iPad for a minute? I need him to check something with the upstairs neighbours.’

Soon as he stepped outside, bitter air clamped around Angus like a fist — squeezing the last gasp of warmth from his lungs. It plumed in the chilly afternoon for a second, before the wind ripped it apart. Above, the sky was tarmac grey, low and threatening.

Angus hurried down the steps and across the road to Dr Fife’s Mini.

He was conked-out in the driver’s seat, reclined all the way back, gob hanging open. A wee trickle of drool seeping into the hairy bit at the side of his mouth.

Suppose it was a shame to wake him.

Still...

Angus rapped on the window, good and hard.

Oops.

Dr Fife jerked awake, staring about at his surroundings like a startled mongoose. Then the door opened, and he scrambled out. ‘Jesus.’ Instantly clenching, then pulling the greatcoat tighter around himself as wind screeched in across the unfulfilled Exciting Development Opportunity. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Awake. Definitely awake.’

‘I checked with the upstairs neighbours — none of them ordered a pizza that night.’

‘Is it always this cold?’ Dr Fife wrapped his arms around himself. ‘I got a big fridge freezer: goes down to minus twenny-five and it’s still warmer than goddamn Oldcastle.’

‘And we know the Fordyces got a curry.’

‘Hell, my first wife’s warmer than this.’

‘But... what if it was just the wrong address? Maybe he went out the other door? The one onto the patio?’

Dr Fife stomped his feet. ‘Yeah, but why? Where’s he going with these pizzas nobody ordered? Mrs McManus says the car park’s been flooded since before Christmas. What: this guy’s wading back to his car, for funzies?’ A shiver. ‘Nah, you do that if you’re shifting a body and don’t want some asshole seeing you. Plus there’s the takeaway rucksack. Guy’s got it on his back, but he’s still carrying two pies by hand?’

Eh?

‘Pies?’

‘Pizza pies: keep up. Why take them out before you get to the customer’s door? Lot more hassle to carry them up the stairs in your hands, right? But it means your nice big takeaway rucksack’s got loads of space for a couple tarpaulins, a body bag, change of clothing, and a cordless drill.’

So Angus had been right the first time: they really had cracked the case.

A huge grin pulled his face wide. ‘Wait till the Boss hears we’ve—’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Dr Fife hugged himself tighter, nose and ears turning cranberry red. ‘We’re gonna check it out first. Just because it quacks and waddles, don’t mean it’s a duck.’

‘But—’

‘It’s OK for you — you’re just a detective constable — I got a reputation to protect. I’m not going to Monroe with some half-assed theory without doing some due diligence.’

Noooo...

If Monroe found out they’d kept something this big from him, he’d make Stalin and Pol Pot look like Teletubbies. Not to mention what DS Massie would do. And Angus was not going on her Naughty List.

‘But—’

‘Unless you want a repeat of Patrick Crombie? If that’s the case: be my guest.’

Ah.

Yes.

Well.

When you put it like that...

15

The stomach-rumbling scents of hot cheese and garlic wafted through the pizzeria like a siren’s call, and Angus’s stomach sang a wistful lament in reply. Gurgling and growling away.

Pizzageddon sat halfway down Clay Road, in Castle Hill, wedged in amongst a handful of other restaurants. The place was bigger inside than it’d looked from the street — kitted out with bare wooden boards on the walls, red-leatherette booths, industrial lighting, with soft rock dribbling out of the speakers. Kind of faux-Italian-trattoria-meets-Manhattan-diner style.

A big wood-fired oven radiated heat from the open kitchen area, supplying those delicious smells for the handful of people who’d braved the wind and rain on a crappy Thursday lunchtime in March.

Dr Fife looked up from his eight-inch Pepperoni Apocalypse, a long string of mozzarella looping from the slice in his hand to the plate below. ‘Will you sit still and eat your pizza? Look like you’ve got rats in your pants.’

Angus glanced at the untouched twelve-inch disc of ham and mushrooms and cheese sitting in front of him, then away again as his stomach yodelled. ‘I... I’m not hungry.’

They’d taken a booth at the rear of the restaurant, because apparently it was deeply important that Dr Fife sit with his back to the room, just in case any paparazzi happened by.

Not sure if that was paranoia, rampant egotistical delusion, or both.

‘You’re the size of a school bus, of course you’re hungry.’ Another bite, chewing as he talked. ‘So how come you don’t have a nickname? “Teams like ’em”, right?’

Angus kept his eyes on the door. ‘Some people are more nicknamey than others.’

‘We could call you “Frisson”?’

‘When we first moved down here, a bunch of kids at the new school called me “Silent G”, till I pointed out how not funny it was and asked them nicely to stop.’ He held out both hands, flexing them into fists. ‘I got a two-week suspension. No one bothered me after that.’

Over by the counter, a small child wailed that it wanted McDonald’s instead.

Someone in the kitchen dropped a metal tray, setting it ringing against the tiled floor.

The insipid music blanded on.

Dr Fife shrugged and wolfed down a chunk of crust. ‘Eat your pie.’ He picked up the next slice and used it to point at Angus’s plate. ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with this. And I spent seven years in New York, so I know pizza.’

Might as well get it over with.

Angus sat up straight. ‘Look, I’ve no idea how much they pay detective constables where you come from, but over here it’s not a lot. OK? That’s why I didn’t order anything.’

Bite. Munch, munch, munch. ‘You ever thought about marrying into money?’ Wiping cheese off his hairy chin with a napkin. ‘I tried it once: the second Mrs Fife, very successful psychiatrist with a Manhattan firm. Her father owned half a dozen canning factories and meat-processing plants, upstate. Absolutely loaded.’

Well, that explained a lot. ‘So you’re rich.’

‘She got the house, the cash, the stocks, the shares, the wolfhound, the inheritance, and custody of Megan. I, on the other hand...’ drawing it out for effect, ‘...got screwed.’

Oh.

Dr Fife went in for another bite. ‘Never get romantically involved with a psychiatrist, Angus, they’re far too devious by half. Plus, they know what you’re up to long before you do. And that’s—’

‘Here we go.’ The manager was back, carrying a plate of garlic bread in one hand, a mixed salad in the other, and a laptop jammed into his oxter. His wasn’t a big man, but he had the kind of sagging wattle neck that suggested he used to be much larger, then lost a lot of weight too quickly. He wasn’t fooling anyone with the wispy dyed-black combover, or the fake orange tan, though. Like the rest of the staff, he was dressed in the restaurant’s signature uniform of jeans, black T-shirt, and a red-white-and-green-striped waistcoat clarted with USA-type badges. ‘Sorry that took so long, we’re having problems with the chip-and-pin machine.’

The bowl and plate went on the table, followed by the laptop, then he scootched into the booth, beside Angus. Frowned at Angus’s plate. ‘Something wrong with the Mushroom Hamageddon?’

‘I’m sure it’s lovely, Mr Wilson, it’s just—’

‘DC MacVicar’s skint.’ If there was any justice in the world, the forensic psychologist’s head would’ve exploded under the force of Angus’s glare, but he helped himself to a forkful of salad instead.

Mr Wilson waved that away. ‘Don’t, please. Your lot caught the wanker painting swastikas and “Jews go home!” on every window in the street. Least I can do.’

A deep rumbling howl sounded deep within Angus’s stomach. But he stuck to his principles and left the pizza alone.

‘God’s sake...’ Dr Fife rolled his eyes. ‘If you’re worried someone’s gonna accuse you of taking bribes—’

‘It’s a question of propriety.’

‘It’s a question of being an idiot.’

Mr Wilson opened the laptop. ‘If it helps: your Chief Superintendent is in here every fortnight with his wife and I’ve never let him pay once.’ Poking at the keyboard, waking the thing up. ‘Now, I checked all the takeaway delivery logs and there’s nothing down for Fiddersmuir on the second of February. It’s outside our free-delivery zone, so there would’ve been a five-pound surcharge too.’

Hello...

Dr Fife polished off another curl of crust. Voice all calm and neutral, as if that hadn’t confirmed their theory. ‘What about delivery drivers? Anyone quit round about then? Or got fired?’

‘No. We’re one big, happy, Pizzageddon family. Lots of our staff have worked here since we opened.’ Mr Wilson reached for a bit of garlic bread, but halfway there seemed to realize what he was up to and slapped his own wrist.

‘Do you sell merchandise? Baseball caps, jackets, that kind of thing?’

Angus dug out his phone and brought up a screengrab of the pizza-delivery man from Mrs McManus’s doorbell camera.

The picture wasn’t great — bit blurry and grainy — and only in profile as the guy marched past Apartment A, but it was all they had.

Mr Wilson frowned at it. ‘We sell hats, but not the...’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘Bobby!’

Yes.

Angus held the phone closer. ‘You recognize him?’

‘What? No. Bobby, one of our delivery team — someone broke into his car and cleared out three Tattie Tornados, a Pepperoni Apocalypse, two Chicken Cataclysms, and an Anchovy Earthquake. Took the uniform, hot-bag, everything. It was just before Christmas and the poor sod thought we were going to take it out of his pay.’

Urgh...

So close. Again.

Mr Wilson shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

Dr Fife crunched his way through a forkful of salad, frowning in silence as the manager fidgeted — eyes drifting back towards that plate of garlic bread.

Then: ‘Can you get your security cameras up on that thing?’ Dr Fife pointed his fork at Angus. ‘He’s carrying two pizza boxes, right? Might make a more convincing disguise if they were hot, so you get the smell.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Mr Wilson closed the delivery log and called up a much more professional-looking system than Mrs McManus’s Clint had cobbled together. ‘You’re in luck — we upgraded everything, including the computers we keep our footage on, when that swastika-spraying Nazi wanker appeared. We’ve got weeks and weeks and weeks on disk.’ He clicked and scrolled, tongue poking from the side of his mouth. ‘Second of February, second of February... Here we go.’

Click, and the laptop screen split into eight separate views of the restaurant’s interior, each with a timestamp in the corner, reading ‘08:30’. Mr Wilson selected the camera overlooking the counter and till. ‘Assuming he didn’t get it delivered to another address, he’d have to come here to collect his order.’

The video whizzed, fast-forwarding through the day, but although plenty of people came and went, there was no sign of their man.

When the timestamp flickered through 17:27 Angus groaned. And not just because his stomach was tying itself in knots at the prospect of that Mushroom Hamageddon sitting right under his nose. That was the time the pizza-delivery man was marching into number eight Burnett Crescent. ‘Anything after this is too late.’

Dr Fife scowled at his slice. ‘Sonofabitch.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Run it again; slower this time.’

Mr Wilson clicked the footage back to the start and set it running while he helped himself to a slab of garlic bread. Not bothering to slap his own wrist as he took a big buttery bite.

Onscreen, families marched in and out of the restaurant, people paid, servers added up bills.

Then, not long after ten to five, a woman wandered up to the counter — early thirties, active leisurewear, messenger bag, red baseball cap.

‘Why do I...?’ Dr Fife frowned as she spoke in silence to the man behind the till.

Angus pointed. ‘Must’ve been in to collect her fliers.’

‘Sorry, fliers?’ Mr Wilson pulled his chin in, concertinaing his wattles.

‘For the restaurant.’

‘Oh, no. We don’t do one-shot marketing: nobody wants them through their letterbox anyway, so it’s basically spam. Not to mention the potential littering problem.’

Dr Fife shuffled closer. ‘Play that bit again — normal speed.’ He glanced at Angus. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

‘Hold on...’ Angus logged onto the restaurant’s Wi-Fi and brought up the web page Clint had built — username: ‘MUM’, password: ‘MISSGARLAND’ — and wheeched through to the appropriate footage. Watched the clip, then held it out. ‘She’s the one handing out fliers.’

‘On the very same night two people died.’ Dr Fife plucked the last slice from his plate and ripped out a triumphant mouthful. ‘Nature and criminal investigations hate a coincidence.’

On the laptop’s screen, the woman stayed at the counter as the guy she’d been talking to headed off — returning a couple of minutes later with a pair of pizza boxes. She paid with contactless, then disappeared out of shot.

‘Where’d she go?’

‘One sec.’ Mr Wilson minimized that video and brought up another one showing the front of the restaurant: three tables, the entrance and the big plate-glass window overlooking Clay Road.

The woman took her pizzas across the screen, and out through the door. She turned right, which meant she was still visible through the window as she handed both boxes to a man. The picture wasn’t great, but he definitely had shoulder-length hair and a beard.

The pair of them headed off down the street, leaving the shot.

‘Where’s the outside cameras?’

There was a bit of erm-ing, then Mr Wilson brought up a camera mounted above the front door. Not that it was any use — there was a reason people up to no good wore hoodies and/or baseball caps. ‘Maybe we need another camera? Sorry.’

Everybody frowned at the table.

Mr Wilson helped himself to the last slice of garlic bread.

Angus’s stomach howled.

And then a slow smile dawned across Dr Fife’s face. ‘She paid for her pizzas with a card. That means we know who she is. Right?’

The laptop’s keyboard rattled as Mr Wilson brought up what looked like accounting software, clicking through it until a popup appeared. ‘Six minutes to five, one medium Veggie Volcano and a large Meaty Maelstrom. The card issuer doesn’t give us names or addresses. We don’t even get the full card number, just what kind of card it was, the last four digits, a bunch of asterisks, and an authorization code.’

‘Goddamnit.’ The smile faded.

Time for Angus to save the day: ‘Yeah, but if we can get a warrant, the bank will give us everything else.’

Dr Fife’s smile was back. ‘Now it’s time to call Monroe.’

Every day in Oldcastle brought another blow to your faith in humanity. Like the pair of tossers walking their dogs in the wee toenail curl of parkland on McDonald Crescent, a two-minute walk from Pizzageddon. One greyhound, one bulldog, both landmining the grass with turds.

And did either of their owners stop to pick up the steaming munitions?

Did they hell.

Angus shifted in the passenger seat of Dr Fife’s Mini, phone clamped to his ear as the silence grew.

Should march right over there and arrest the pair of them for contravening the Dog Fouling (Scotland) Act 2003. Well, maybe not arrest, because enforcing the Act was technically down to the local authority, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle of the—

‘Hold on, wait.’ It’d taken a while, but DCI Monroe had finally found his voice again. ‘There’s doorbell footage? Why is there doorbell footage? Why don’t we already have that?’ The sound went all muffled as he did something to the phone. ‘Rhona! Burnett Crescent: Angus says there’s film of the Fortnight Killer on someone’s video doorbell! What the pricking prick is going on? Why haven’t we seen it?’

Her voice was barely audible in the background. ‘Give us a minute...’

Angus scowled as the greyhound’s owner sodded off down Buchan Road, poopless. ‘We haven’t got a name, but we’re one hundred percent it’s the same man on the Pizzageddon security cameras.’

Monroe was back to full volume, suspicion oozing from his voice. ‘Definitely, definitely?’

‘Well, eighty percent definitely. Maybe seventy-five? But we’re certain it’s the same woman.’

More silence.

The bulldog owner watched her dog scraik its back paws through the wet grass, then hauled it off towards Dunstan Drive. She’d almost reached the edge of the park when she came to a sudden halt — both arms out for balance as she peered at the underside of her shoe.

Hmph...

Served her right.

She limped away, scraping her foot along the grass like Quasimodo in a pencil skirt.

‘Boss?’

No reply from Monroe, but DS Massie had clearly returned from her task, sounding more than a little sheepish. ‘It was buried in the actions. Bonnie was supposed to chase it up, but then she had to go on that course, and...’ Cough. ‘And it kinda got lost in the shuffle?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Rhona, this stuff’s important!’

‘I know, I know, but she went on that crime-scene-management course, and she was meant to hand everything over, and then we found Douglas Healey-Robinson’s body, and... Sorry?’

The driver’s door popped open and in climbed Dr Fife, bringing a takeaway pizza box with him. Flaunting his leftovers.

Angus covered the phone’s microphone. ‘DCI Monroe. There’s been a bit of a cock-up.’

‘What a shock.’ He held out the pizza box. ‘Here: take.’

They’d been over this.

‘I’m not accepting—’

‘And give me the phone.’

Oh. Right.

Angus did what he was told. ‘Don’t use all my minutes.’

A frown. ‘Why’s this thing in a goddamn baggie?’ He ripped the plastic off. ‘Monroe?... Fife. If it is our guy he fits the profile we’ve got so far. There’s pre-planning: stealing the uniform; means of entry: “Hi there, pizza for Dr Fordyce? Oh, you didn’t order it? Must be a thank-you from a grateful patient, it’s paid for anyway, so you might as well have it”; and most importantly: an accomplice.’ Dr Fife listened for a bit, rolling his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, how do you think he gets the missing victims’ bodies out of there?... Yeah, exactly. And that’s why we need the warrant... Cool... OK... Uh-huh: soon as you like... Thanks.’ Dr Fife hung up and tossed the phone back to Angus. ‘He’s gonna get us a court order for Flier Girl’s credit-card details.’

Angus gave the phone a quick look over for greasy fingerprints, then hid it away in a pocket before anything else happened. Passed the pizza box back across the car.

Only Dr Fife wouldn’t take it. ‘Don’t worry — I explained about the stick up your ass, and Mr Wilson decided to give the free pizza to me. It’s mine now. And I’m loaning it to you.’

‘But—’

‘You can pay me back later.’

...

Fair enough.

And it did smell delicious.

16

Technically, this end of Sadler Road was in the posher bit of Kingsmeath, north of the railway line — where the council houses looked a bit more prosperous, fewer bone-thin Alsatians roamed the streets, and almost no one had a clapped-out washing machine or saggy old sofa in their front garden. Yeah, there was the occasional rusty, wheelless car up on bricks, and you could buy hash, snork, coke, E, jeelies, and meth from any number of local entrepreneurs, but it was still nicer than the bit Angus lived in.

Sadler Road connected the two halves — bridging the gap between the have-nots and the have-even-lesses.

Angus checked his watch: 16:30.

Pfff...

They’d parked four doors down from number one-thirty-two: a semi-detached, post-war two-storey in a big, long row of identical houses. All grey-and-beige-stained harling, corrugated tile roofs, the paintwork peeling on their door-and-window-frames. Tiny gardens with rampant box hedges that encroached on the pavement.

All except for number one-thirty-two.

Its other half, one-thirty-one, looked as if it’d been left to rot for at least a couple of decades, but one-thirty-two boasted new uPVC windows, a bright-blue door, a fresh paint job, and a tiled portico. Very swish. A driveway ran up the side of the neatly trimmed garden, ending in a new-ish garage, whereas next-door’s ended in a knackered Transit van and a Jenga pile of pallets.

Dr Fife gave a little snore and shifted in the driver’s seat — reclined all the way back, greatcoat draped over him like a blanket, eyes closed, gob open.

Angus looked past him, through the window, and out across the playing fields that bordered the other side of the street. Separated from Sadler Road by an eight-foot-high cage of saggy chain-link. A bunch of wee kids were out playing a game of after-school rugby, slogging their way through the muddy grass while a miserable clump of parents looked on and a masochistic PE teacher blew his whistle.

Today was turning into a proper trip down memory lane.

Meathmill Academy must’ve shrunk since Angus escaped its academic clutches, because it seemed absolutely massive at the time. The buildings lurked on the far side of the playing fields, about as welcoming as a bus shelter full of sick. The primary school next door was a bit better, with its colourful play equipment, but both backed onto the railway embankment — a towering, thirty-foot mound of grass and weeds, sealed off behind yet another line of chain-link fence.

All a massive culture shock for a wee boy who’d arrived from private school in Aberdeen not long after his dad died...

Angus opened the empty pizza box again, searching for any crumbs of crust or flecks of cheese he’d missed the last three times.

Nothing but greasy stains remained.

Dr Fife cracked an eye. ‘You’ll wear the pattern off the cardboard.’

He closed the box again. ‘So why aren’t you on social media?’

‘Cos it’s a complete waste of everyone’s time.’ He shifted in his seat, pulling the greatcoat up to his nose. ‘Besides, you gimme someone’s username, and fifty bucks says I’ll have them geolocated in twenty minutes, tops. And I do not want people geolocating me.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘Now shut up. Trying to sleep here.’

Pfff...

The wind played a mournful tune on the chain-link fence.

High up above, clouds whipped across the dirty sky.

A walker-less dog ambled by, pausing only to tag the nearest lamppost.

‘Don’t know how you can sleep when we’re this close to catching the Fortnight Killer.’

Dr Fife scrunched his face up. ‘I can’t sleep, because you keep yammering on!’

‘You know what I mean.’

A pained growl, then a sigh hissed free. ‘OK, look: stakeouts are five percent running about, kicking in doors, and shooting people; the other ninety-five percent is this. Sitting on your ass, waiting for something to happen, even though you know it probably ain’t gonna. Like they say in the military, “You sleep whenever you can, wherever you can.”’ He wriggled beneath his greatcoat. ‘Guy on a SWAT team in Nebraska taught me the method they taught him when he was a Navy SEAL. I can sleep on a rollercoaster if I need to.’

Cool.

Angus sat up. ‘Can you teach me?’

‘No. You’re on lookout.’ Dr Fife settled beneath his makeshift blanket again. ‘Now shut your yap.’

Charming.

The overgrown hedges cowered and shivered in the wind.

A feral shopping bag billowed down the street.

Those poor kids lurched and staggered around the rugby pitch, slowly turning blue with cold.

Angus checked his watch again –16:32.

Urgh...

‘Should’ve been here with that search warrant by now. Do you think I should chase them up? I don’t want to come off all high and mighty.’

Dr Fife forced his reply out through gritted teeth. ‘Then don’t chase them up.’

Angus pulled out his phone — now ensconced in a fresh ziplock bag, because it never hurt to be prepared. No new voicemails. No new messages. ‘But they should’ve been here by now.’

‘Then chase them up.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘For God’s sake! Chase them up, don’t chase them up. I don’t care, just pick one!’

Bloody hell. Bit unnecessary.

‘I was only—’

‘Graaaaaaagh!’ Dr Fife cracked open one baleful eye. ‘I got ninety minutes’ sleep last night, my back’s killing me, my body thinks it’s seven in the morning, and I’m stuck in a stupid tiny car in a stupid freezing, windy, shithole city with a lumbering great halfwit WHO WON’T SHUT UP!’ Glaring.

Angus folded his arms and thumped back in his seat, staring out the window.

Wind buffeted the Mini on its springs.

An eightsome-reel tornado of empty crisp packets danced by.

Dr Fife groaned. ‘Sorry. I’m... tired. I don’t think you’re a halfwit.’

‘Hmph.’ He pulled one shoulder up in a non-committal shrug. ‘Right.’

‘But Oldcastle’s definitely a shithole.’

Looking out at the crappy houses, it was hard to disagree.

Angus poked the contacts icon and scrolled through. ‘I’m going to call them.’ Listening to it ring and ring and ring, then:

‘DS Massie.’ Her voice was distorted, almost drowned out by the wail of a patrol car’s siren and engine roar. ‘Hello?’

‘Sarge? It’s Angus. DC MacVicar? Erm... when the Boss got the search warrant approved, he said we should wait here for backup, and I was just wondering when it’s going to—’

‘Did no one tell you? We got a DNA hit off the Healey-Robinsons’ house.’

He put a hand over the phone. ‘They’ve got an ID!’

Dr Fife sat up at that, eyebrows raised.

‘Ask your arsehole doctor friend if the Fortnight Killer’s got form for violence.’

‘They want to know if the Fortnight Killer’s got a criminal record.’

Wrinkles concertinaed the forensic psychologist’s forehead. ‘If he does, it’s more likely to be for minor stuff. He’s been saving up his savage desires for this. Experimenting in secret.’

Back to the phone. ‘Only wee stuff. Nothing violent.’

Dr Fife poked him. ‘Probably!’

‘Probably.’

The siren changed pitch, yelping as the driver ponked the horn. ‘Sounds like our boy: Sean McGilvary, got a list of shoplifting and vandalism behind him long as a snake. We’re on our way to Calman Road now, mob-handed. There’s—’

Someone muffled something in the background.

‘It’s DC MacVicar, Boss... Erm, OK.’

She must’ve handed over the phone, because DCI Monroe boomed out of the handset. ‘Look, I know we said we’d be there, but we need to pick up this Sean McGilvary ASAP. Soon as we’ve done that, we’ll wheech right over to Sadler Road, OK?’

Angus sat to attention. ‘Calman Road’s in Cowskillin, right, Boss? We can be there in—’

‘You’re not going anywhere. If this Kate Paisley woman really is the Fortnight Killer’s accomplice, we need her behind bars too! You and Dr Fife keep an eye on the property: make sure she doesn’t do a runner when we dunt her boyfriend’s door in.’

‘But it’s—’

‘I’m sending you backup.’ Monroe’s voice faded a bit. ‘Rhona, get Colly and ’Tash round to Sadler Road. Hotfoot.’ Then back to full strength: ‘You’re to observe only! Safety first, understand?’

All the excitement sagged out of him. ‘Yes, Boss.’

‘I’m counting on you, Angus. We put an end to this today and no one else has to die.’ And with that, the line went silent. He’d hung up.

Angus deflated even further, protruding bottom lip reflecting in the phone’s blank screen.

A snort from Dr Fife. ‘Let me guess: no backup?’

‘Patrol car’s on its way. We’re to keep watch till the Boss’s got his suspect in custody.’

Dr Fife cranked his seat into the upright and locked position. ‘With couples who kill, there’s always one dominant and one submissive. Pizza Guy is clearly dominant, so we can safely assume that Kate Paisley won’t put up much of a struggle.’ He looked Angus up and down — stuffed into the Mini’s passenger seat like a bear in a kitchen cabinet. ‘And I think you can probably handle her without backup.’ He hopped out of the car, swirling the greatcoat around himself.

What?

No!

No, no, no, no, no...

‘Hold on, you can’t just...’ Angus scrambled out after him.

A gust grabbed the car door and tried to wrench it from Angus’s grasp. He wrestled it closed. ‘Hoy! We have to wait for ’Tash and Colly!’ Hurrying across the road, wind shoving at his shoulders with icy hands.

‘Keep telling you knuckle-draggers: I’ve been catching killers since you were sucking on your momma’s titties. Think I know something about how to do this properly.’ He strutted past the intervening houses, hands deep in his pockets, head bent, shoulders up.

‘The Boss specifically said to stay out of it till they get here!’

Which made sod-all difference whatsoever.

The rotten sod slipped through the neat little garden gate to number one-thirty-two.

Angus hurried after him. ‘Dr Fife!’

But he kept going, up the short path to the new blue door. Reaching up to ring the bell.

‘Hoy!’ Angus staggered to a halt beside him. ‘Have you got neeps between your ears?’

‘Too late, we’re here now.’ He pointed. ‘Put your thumb over the spyhole.’

‘What?’

‘You couldn’t look more like a plainclothes police officer if you tried, and we don’t wanna spook her. Finger: spyhole.’ He rang the bell again.

This was all going to come back and bite them on the balls, wasn’t it.

Angus blocked the spyhole with a fingertip. ‘Maybe she’s not in?’ Which meant they could get out of here before Monroe or anyone else found out. ‘You know, it’s not too late to sod off back to the car. No one has to—’

The door opened and Angus staggered forward a step, catching his balance after leaning on his spyhole finger a bit too heavily.

Which might have come across more like an aggressive lunge than a trying-not-to-fall-flat-on-his-face, because the woman opening the door flinched back, eyes wide as he and his finger swooped towards her.

Long nose, glasses, early thirties, active leisurewear.

Flier Girl.

‘Kate Paisley?’ Dr Fife grinned up at her. ‘Delivered any good pizzas lately?’

Angus went for his warrant card, but she wasn’t hanging around.

‘Shite...’ Deep breath. ‘RYAN, IT’S THE PIGS!’ She tried to slam the door, but Angus was too far forward, after his stumble, and it bounced off his head with a hollow-plastic thwannnnng.

He staggered back a couple of paces and she legged it — tearing away down the hall. Leaving him standing there with the noise ringing through his skull.

Dr Fife grabbed his arm, steadying him. ‘That’s assaulting a police officer, right? Go get her, Tiger!’ Slapping Angus’s arse, like something off a Hollywood sports movie.

Angus shook his head, blinked, and barged inside.

The hall was every bit as tidy and well maintained as the outside: all the woodwork painted, nice laminate floor, a couple of framed posters on the wall. A set of boxed-in steps led upstairs, but you had to go to the end of the corridor to get to the foot of them, presumably to accommodate the tiny understairs loo.

Three other doors, leading off.

‘RYAN: PERIMETER BREACH!’ Kate Paisley was already at the end of the hall, skidding on the laminate as she made a hard left turn and vanished through one of them. ‘CODE BLACK!’

He lumbered after her, leaving Dr Fife hovering on the doorstep.

Three steps in and Angus was building speed, shaking off that door in the face. By the time he hammered past the end of the stairs he was going full pelt — having to scramble around the corner to avoid slamming into the door at the end of the corridor, so he could make it through the one she’d taken instead.

Following Kate Paisley into a nice fitted kitchen with black granite worktops and oak units. Must’ve cost a fortune.

She was jiggering about from foot to foot at the back door, fumbling with the key. ‘Come on, you fucker...’

This time, Angus really did lunge for her.

The lock clicked, the handle swung downwards, but before she could haul the door open more than an inch, he was on her. They both thumped into the door, slamming it shut again. Which seemed to set off an enormous dog in the back garden. It launched itself at the other side of the uPVC, barking like a howitzer going off.

Kate Paisley struggled, throwing elbows and knees about, trying to hit something delicate. ‘CODE BLACK! CODE BLACK!’

He tightened his grip, bracing one foot against the kitchen wall to force her face down onto the floor. Gritting his teeth as needles jabbed their way through his forearm. ‘No biting!’

‘GET OFF ME! RYAN! CODE BLOODY BLACK! RYAN!’

Angus struggled his right hand down her arm, grabbed hold of her wrist and bent it back on itself. Putting a bit of weight on the joint till she screamed into the tasteful tiles.

Stopped her struggling, though.

‘Kate Paisley, I am arresting you under Section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 for assault. The reason for your arrest is that—’

‘ANGUS!’ That was Dr Fife, yelling from the front of the house, sounding as if something horrible was just about to happen. ‘I REALLY NEED YOU HERE RIGHT NOW!’

Oh, in the name of...

As if he didn’t have enough on his—

‘NOW, ANGUS!’

Fine.

He yanked out his cuffs and slapped one end on Kate Paisley’s twisted wrist, then struggled it around so he could get the other one clicked into place too.

Scrambled to his feet. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

The back door rattled and boomed as the dog hurled itself against it. Barking and barking and barking.

Yeah...

Angus locked the door and pocketed the key. Just in case.

‘RYAN, ISN’T IT? COME ON, RYAN, I KNOW YOU DON’T WANNA HURT ANYONE.’

Bugger.

For once, Dr Fife wasn’t just being a pain in the arse.

Angus rushed back out into the hall again.

‘ANGUS, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!’

Feet slipping on the laminate, he made the turn, just missed tripping over the end of the stairs and charged towards the panicked shouting.

‘HELP ME!’

No idea what was going on — whoever ‘Ryan’ was, he must’ve been in the understairs loo, having a wee, because the door lay wide open, obscuring that end of the corridor.

‘NO! DON’T BE...’

Then yelling and some muffled thuds.

Come on, move it.

Angus lowered his shoulder and barged into the open WC door, slamming it shut as he barrelled past and out the front door.

Skidded to a halt on the path.

Dr Fife was curled up in a ball, spine pressed against the neatly trimmed hedge, hands and arms covering his head as a man rained down punches like artillery fire.

Tracksuit bottoms, a black hoodie — hood up, baseball cap obscuring his face — a grey gilet, bright-white trainers.

‘STOP! POLICE!’

The guy didn’t say anything, just stopped pummelling Dr Fife and leapt the gate instead. Bolting for the playing grounds, hoodie and gilet flapping in the wind behind him.

And he was fast.

Across the road and up the chain-link fence — scaling it as if it was barely there.

Angus scuttled over and checked on Dr Fife, pulling his hands away from his face. ‘Are you OK?’

Which was kind of a stupid question, because blood pulsed out of the forensic psychologist’s nose and red welts blossomed on his forehead and cheek. More blood oozing from a split lip.

He peered up at Angus, wrenched his arms free. ‘Go!’ Voice all bunged up and nasal. ‘Ged himb!’

Right.

‘Kate Paisley’s in the kitchen: don’t let her leave!’ Angus hurdled the gate, charging after the disappearing Ryan.

Because this bastard was not getting away.

17

The chain-link rattled and wobbled as Angus scrambled up the fence. Which wasn’t anywhere near as easy as Ryan made it look.

Puffing and panting, fingers digging into the gaps between the wire, shoes scrabbling for purchase... And he was up! One leg over the top, then the next and—

A horrible ripping sound, like fabric parting.

Sodding...

Angus plummeted down the other side, landing in a heap on the grass. Forcing himself upright and lumbering into a run again.

Ryan’s lead had grown — cutting across the rugby pitch, elbows up, knees pumping, still going strong.

No you don’t.

Angus sped up, leaning into it, breath whoomping in and out.

Near the middle of the pitch, a wee knot of seven or eight kids were arguing with the referee. Ryan ploughed straight through them, shoulder checking the ref and sending the kids flying like skittles.

Slowed him up a bit, meaning Angus was finally closing the gap.

Something must’ve taken a good thump in the impact, because Ryan had developed a bit of a limp. But he’d already cleared the last player, hurpled past the goal, and was heading for the far side of the playing field — making a beeline for the primary school.

‘STOP! POLICE!’ Well, it was worth a go.

And for the first time, in the history of ever, it actually worked.

Ryan slowed to a jog, then stopped completely — barely a dozen feet from the wooden fence that encircled the playground’s rust-flecked roundabouts, swings, and climbing frames.

Can’t believe that actually worked.

No one ever stopped when you shouted at them.

Yelling ‘STOP! POLICE!’ only made the buggers run faster.

But there was a first time for—

Ryan dug into his hoodie’s pocket and pulled out a black revolver.

It was a replica.

Right?

It had to be, because—

A hard CRACK rang out across the playing field.

Angus skidded to a halt on the churned-up grass, right beneath the goalpost. ‘GUN! EVERYBODY DOWN!’

The gun barked again, immediately followed by the metallic screech of a bullet ricocheting off the metal upright.

The snap of another bullet, whizzing past.

Sod this.

Angus dived for the ground, splatching into the mud as the gun fired again and again.

Another shot set the goal above his head ringing, showering him in flecks of white paint.

Someone screamed.

Someone sobbed.

Someone swore.

But there were no more shots.

He raised his head.

Ryan was nowhere to be—

No, wait — over there. On the other side of the playground, hoofing it across the car park.

Angus struggled to his feet.

Please don’t let anyone be dead, please don’t let anyone be dead...

Every single grown-up was hugging the ground, and a few of the kids too. But most of them just stood about, watching Ryan leg it. They grew them tough in Kingsmeath. And thick.

‘IS ANYONE HIT?’

People sat up, shaking their heads.

No sign of anyone bleeding or lying dead with a hole in their head.

When Angus turned back again, Ryan was Spider-Manning his way over the final line of chain-link fence — between the primary school and the railway embankment.

‘SOMEONE CALL NINE-NINE-NINE — ACTIVE SHOOTER, OFFICER IN PURSUIT!’

A bloody stupid officer.

Angus set off at a run again, getting faster, leaping the fence into the playground.

Bloody Ryan was already at the crest of the steep bank, pausing for a moment to look back down at the chaos he’d wrought, before disappearing.

Angus hauled himself up the chain-link, wrestled his way over the top and more or less collapsed down the other side. Blood whoomping in his ears; breath rattling in his throat. Sweat trickling its way down his back. Face burning. Peching and heeching as he scrabbled up the bank.

When he finally reached the summit, there was no sign of Ryan at all. Without the embankment getting in the way, the wind ripped across the valley, shoving against Angus’s chest. The first strike of rain stabbing him in the face.

He staggered towards the railway lines, stopping on the concrete sleepers and bending over to grab a knee. Holding himself upright as his chest heaved cold gritty air into his hot peppery lungs.

Where the hell had Ryan gone?

From up here most of Oldcastle was laid out like a windswept blanket — all the way down Kingsmeath, across Kings River, then up the valley to Moncuir Wood in all its malevolent darkness; and the bland sprawling mass of Shortstaine beyond.

And still no sign of the guy he’d been chasing.

Angus straightened up, still breathing like a punctured Space Hopper as he staggered across the railway tracks to the embankment’s other side, standing at the edge of the drop down to the arse-end of Forbes Drive, a good fifty feet below.

He wiped a hand across his face, blinking away the sting of sweat in both eyes as he scanned the overgrown back gardens and crummy council houses — because why bother building somewhere nice, when you could just jam all the poor people into cheap-and-nasty shiteholes and forget about them?

How could Ryan just vanish?

The bastard had to be somewhere...

There: off to the right.

A screech of tyres whined out as an engine revved, and a manky green VW Polo accelerated off in a plume of blue-grey smoke. The exhaust sounded as if it was more holes than metal.

Then an angry voice wafted up from the street below: ‘HOY!’ A figure ran out into the road, shaking their fist at the departing car. ‘COME BACK HERE, YOU THIEVING WANKER!’

Angus pulled out his Airwave, wiping away another faceful of sweat as he thumbed the button. ‘DC MacVicar... to... Control?’

He got a cheery ‘Oh, aye?’ in reply. ‘And what can we do for you, DC—’

‘I need a... lookout request... on a... on a green Volkswagen Polo... heading west... on Forbes... Forbes Drive.’ He stepped back, up onto the rails for a better view of the car as it shrank into the distance. ‘Driver is... armed... handgun. Shots fired.’

The jolly edge was replaced by something much more professional: ‘Vehicle registration?’

‘Don’t... I don’t know.’ Then an invisible gremlin rammed a knife into his ribs. ‘Argh... Stitch...’

‘OK: I can’t trigger the ANPR without a number plate, but we’ll sort something.’ A computer keyboard rattled in the background. ‘Injuries?’

A weird noise vibrated through the air — the atonal ping-twang-pwooom of metal singing somewhere beneath his feet.

Angus hauled in great coughing lungfuls of air. Spluttered himself to a wheeze, drooping as sweat dribbled down his back. ‘What?’

‘You said “shots fired”: any casualties?’

‘Don’t think... think so.’ Dear God, was he ever going to breathe properly again? ‘I need backup to... to one-thirty-two Sadler Road... One prisoner in custody... Dr Fife may need... medical attention. Better scramble... ambulance... just in case.’

‘Stand by.’

An ear-splitting HONK! blared out behind him and Angus cleared the ground by a good foot, spinning around to see a massive goods train rumbling down the tracks towards him. The thing was barely moving at a walking pace, but he limped off the tracks anyway.

‘Do we have an ID?’

‘IC-One male... five-eleven, fourteen stone... dark hair. First name... Ryan... No idea what his surname—’

HONNNNNNNK!

‘He’s... our Pizza Man... The Fortnight Killer.’

‘How can he be? DCI Monroe just arrested the scumbag in Cowskillin.’

‘It’s just... I don’t know, OK?’ Another coughing fit shuddered his ribs. Soon as he could haul in a serrated breath, Angus howked a gobbet of froth onto the singing rails. ‘Urgh...’

HONNNNNNNNNNNNK!

‘I’ll try... get a number plate for that... Volkswagen.’

HONNNK! HONK-HONNNNNNK! HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNK!

The train couldn’t have been more than a five-a-side football pitch away, bearing down on him with all the speed of an auld wifie and her tartan shopping trolley.

‘Got to go.’ Angus stuck the Airwave back in his pocket, waving at the train as he hobbled back to the embankment’s far edge, overlooking the heady delight of Forbes Drive. ‘Right.’

Deep breath, then he slithered down the steep slope on his rip-arsed trousers — doing his best to avoid the clumps of nettles and thistles.

And failing.

Could today get any worse?

18

Trapped between the lowering clouds and the valley rim, the sun painted Oldcastle with blood as Angus limped along Sadler Road.

He followed the line of chain-link fencing, skirting the playing fields, making for number one-thirty-two where a wee police circus was setting up. Two patrol cars blocked the street, along with an ambulance, their lights spinning slowly in the falling gloom.

Almost there.

Be nice to get a sit-down out of the howling wind. And a cup of tea. And a lovely warm bath...

Angus’s phone ding-buzzed with an incoming text.

Maybe it’d be good news for a change?

He fumbled his mobile out with cold-stiffened fingers and checked.

It wasn’t.

ELLIE:

Lovely.

Right.

Angus thumbed out a reply:

...was as far as he got before the thing rang in his hands — launching into Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ as Ellie’s name appeared in the middle of the screen.

An unwashed patrol car wheeched by, blues-and-twos going full pelt. Momentarily deafening, then Dopplering away, before falling silent as it pulled up in front of number one-thirty-two.

Yeah...

Angus gritted his teeth and let Ellie’s call ring through to voicemail.

Deleted the word ‘REQUEST’ then finished his text.

SEND.

Not sure that would hold her for long, but it was all he had.

The new arrivals dug a roll of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape from the boot of their patrol car — securing one end to the chain-link and the other to the scruffy box hedge that bordered number one-thirty-one. Then headed off to do the same on the other side. Isolating one-thirty-two from its neighbours.

Their cordon brrrrrrrred and thrummed in the wind.

Which seemed to amuse the audience no end.

About fifteen kids in muddy rugby strips — none of them older than eight — had clustered on the playing-field side of the fence, crunching down bags of crisps and scoofing tins of high-caffeine energy drinks while they watched.

One of them spotted Angus hobbling along the pavement and pointed. Their high-pitched Kingsmeath accent cut the cold air like a bandsaw: ‘Hoy! It’s yer man!’

Another kid turned to look. Breaking into a huge, gap-toothed grin. ‘Heeeeerrrrrrro! Heeeeerrrrrrro!’

A little girl skipped closer, fingertips running along the chain-link, auburn curls bouncing around her angelic wee face. ‘Hey, mannie! D’ye get him? The fuckin’ radge wie the shooter?’

Angus gave them a wave and a pained smile.

‘Heeeeerrrrrrro! Heeeeerrrrrrro!’

PC Collier kicked her heels beside Patrol Car Number Two, keeping one eye on the occupant in the back seat: Kate Paisley. Glowering away at everyone and everything.

Colly looked up when the cheering started. Staring at Angus as he ducked under the new cordon. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing? Getting shot at!’

‘Afternoon.’ He stumbled to a halt and she thumped him on the arm.

‘Hulking great idiot.’ Her voice softened. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Missed me by miles.’ He took a peek through the passenger window. ‘She give you any trouble?’

Kate Paisley bared her teeth at him, baleful as a gargoyle.

One of the kids kicked off a sort of football-chant thing, waving his hands over his head. ‘There’s only one Giant Bastard...’

His mates joined in:

Colly shrugged. ‘Naw. Well, not me anyway. Tried to boot ’Tash’s nuts into orbit, though.’ She nodded towards the ambulance. ‘Your twat mate always this much of a pain?’

The back doors were open and there was Dr Fife, sitting on the trolley — slouched forwards, clutching a big wodge of gauze over his nose. It probably started out nice and white, but now most of the fabric was stained a rich beetroot red.

A paramedic wrestled a blood-pressure cuff into place, even though his patient clearly was not cooperating.

‘Oh yeah.’ Angus rested his bum against the patrol car’s bonnet. ‘Anyway: nothing to do with me. Only known him a day.’

‘Aye?’ Colly smiled. ‘I heard you were besties and you love him.’ She stuck two fingers in her mouth and let rip a shrieking whistle. ‘You know the arse is hanging out your breeks, right?’

He stood, twisting around a few times, trying to catch sight of his own bum. Which was exactly the kind of thing they laughed at Wee Hamish for doing — birling round and round on the living-room mat, chasing his tail. Angus stopped spinning and grabbed the seat of his trousers instead, feeling his way along a huge rip that was jaggy with the occasional thistle spike. ‘Oh, in the name of...’ How did it get to be so big?

‘Well done.’ ’Tash appeared through the gate to number one-thirty-two. A stabproof vest kept his middle-aged spread under control, but he seemed to have developed a knock-kneed mincing walk since that morning — presumably in reaction to Kate Paisley’s boot. It gave him a semi-piratical air to go with his big droopy moustache, big droopy nose, and sad droopy eyes. ‘Now see if you can tell which one’s your elbow.’ ’Tash wrung his hands together, as if he’d just washed them. Probably been examining the testicular damage in Kate Paisley’s understairs bog. He grimaced at Colly. ‘Boss is on his way.’ A sniff. ‘Which is typical. Top brass only ever turn up after all the hard work’s been done and there’s no chance of being kicked in the nads.’ Adjusting his groin brought on a shoulder-curling wince. He waited for it to fade before limping past Colly to the patrol car. ‘Orders are: sod off back to the ranch. Get Paisley charged and processed.’

Angus tilted his head towards the ambulance. ‘Thanks. For looking after him.’

Colly grimaced. ‘I’d say “my pleasure” but it wasn’t.’ She opened the driver’s door. ‘Just make sure you get that arse of yours covered. Don’t want to start a sexy riot.’ A wink and she slipped in behind the wheel.

’Tash winced his way into the passenger seat, and they were off.

Angus raised the cordon for them, holding the tape high so the patrol car could slip underneath. And all the way, Kate Paisley glared at him.

Definitely made a friend there.

Pfff...

Sirens howled in the distance, getting closer. That would be the Boss and his entourage.

Dr Fife struggled free from the paramedic’s grip and clambered down from the ambulance, still holding that wodge of bloodied gauze to his face. The welts and scrapes from Ryan’s attack stood out in angry shades of red against his pale skin; by tomorrow he’d have an impressive array of bruises. But for now, he stomped across the road towards Angus.

The football chant came to an abrupt halt as all the kids stared.

‘Hoy, Dobby! You seen Harry Fuckin’ Potter anywhere?’

‘That’s no’ Dobby, ya prawn, that’s a genuine Oompa Loompa!’

The little girl with the curls bounced in place. ‘Aye: sees a Twix, ya chocolaty wee bastard!’

Little shites.

‘Goddamnit...’ Dr Fife’s face clenched, shoulders curling up.

Right.

Angus stepped towards the fence. ‘HOY! That’s enough: you don’t talk to people like that!’

‘Oh, no! Shrek’s mad at us.’

‘Aye, leave us alone, ya great-big paedo!’

‘Peeeee-dowww! Peeeee-dowww!’

Every single one of them produced a smartphone, swiping away and holding them up, ready to record him reading the riot act. No doubt destined to become memes and reaction gifs all over the internet.

Well, tough, because Angus wasn’t playing.

He turned his back on the lot of them, and...

Where...?

Dr Fife had disappeared.

‘Hello? Dr Fife?’

He was crouched behind the nearest patrol car, clearly hiding from the impromptu film crew. Glaring up at Angus. ‘I don’t need you to fight my battles!’

‘I was only trying to—’

‘I’m not a child!’ The glare became a snarl. ‘If they didn’t have cameras, I’d march over there and kick their asses.’

Angus leaned back against the car roof. ‘They’re just stupid kids.’

‘They’re assholes!’ Jabbing a finger at the ground. ‘Like I haven’t had enough crap to deal with today! Whatshername’ — his finger stopped threatening the ground and stabbed after Colly’s car instead — ‘the one with the ugly haircut. She said you lost him. Ryan.’

Oh no you don’t.

‘He tried to kill me. With a gun!’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic: everyone tries to kill everyone else with a gun all the time!’

The paramedic ambled over, hooking a thumb at the ambulance. ‘Are you getting back in this thing or what?’

Dr Fife scowled at him. ‘I’m busy.’ Then the jabbing finger poked Angus. ‘You wouldn’t last a day back home.’

‘Fine.’ The paramedic folded his arms, nose in the air. ‘Die of a delayed concussion, see if I care.’

‘Go away! Leave me alone!’ Jerking his head in Angus’s direction. ‘Or I’ll set Sasquatch on you.’

Lovely.

Angus waved at the guy. ‘Sorry.’

‘Hmmmph...’ The paramedic turned on his heel and strolled back to the ambulance, hands in his pockets. ‘But if your man drops dead, can’t say I didn’t try!’

Soon as he’d gone, Angus pulled himself up to his full height. ‘He was only doing his job.’ Towering over Dr Fife. ‘And we don’t have guns in Scotland, because we’re a civilized country, not a bunch of yee-haw, bible-thumping, ammosexual, redneck... wankers.’ Banging his palm down on the patrol-car roof and making it boom. ‘This shite is not normal!’

They glowered at each other as the approaching sirens fell silent and two unmarked pool cars stopped in front of the cordon — blue-and-white lights flickering through their radiator grilles. An OSU van and a Dog Unit pulled up behind them.

DCI Monroe got out of the lead vehicle, looking around as DS Sharp and DC Stephen ‘Ernie’ Wyse scrambled out after him.

Wyse struck a pose: nose up, fists on his hips, broad shoulders pulled back. His suit was just a bit too flash to be a proper fighting one — didn’t even look machine washable. That and his short-back-and-sides-plus-quiff combo screamed ‘wide boy’ rather than ‘police officer’. On the plus side, the mole on his top lip had a permanent-cold-sore feel to it. He pulled on a pair of shades, as if he wasn’t enough of a tit already.

Last to emerge was Monster Munch, sporting a brand-new bright-white plaster across the bridge of her nose. Courtesy of Patrick Crombie.

DI Cohen appeared from the second pool car, and joined Monroe, the pair of them talking in low voices and pointing at the far end of the playing field. Then Cohen got back in his car. It jerked into a three-point turn, the siren wailing into life again as it roared off down Sadler Road. Lights blazing.

The Operational Support Unit stayed where they were — in the warm, out of the wind — but the driver got out of the dog van, went around the back, and returned with PD Bawheid, huge and slathery and barking as he strained his lead taut. Looking keen as mince to inflict a bit of law-and-order on anyone who might be tasty.

Angus pressed his bum against the patrol car, just in case it exuded ‘bite me’ vibes in its rip-trousered state.

One of the wee kids boggled. ‘Fuck me; it’s Cujo!’

‘Cooooooooojoh-oh! Cooooooooojoh-oh!’

Monroe pointed, and off scurried DC Wyse and Monster Munch — pulling out their notebooks as they headed for the chain-link and that crowd of muddy kids.

Wyse struck another pose. ‘All right, all right, let’s have names and addresses for the lot of you.’

Soon as the words left his mouth, the children scattered in a flurry of V-signs, middle fingers, raspberries, and foul language.

Monroe marched over to Angus and Dr Fife, his face pink and pinched, eyes bulging. ‘I told you to wait! “Wait, watch, stay safe,” I said. What I didn’t say was “Charge into the violent suspect’s property without proper authorization and backup!”’

‘Yes’ — Angus held up a hand — ‘but—’

‘SOMEONE COULD’VE BEEN KILLED!’

‘Really?’ Dr Fife pulled the bloodied gauze from his nose and held it out for inspection. ‘I’m fine, by the way. Thanks.’

‘And now I’ve got a gunman on the loose in Oldcastle!’ Monroe marched away a couple of paces, dragged in a deep breath or two, then marched back again. Voice a lot calmer than it had been ten seconds ago. ‘Right. OK. This complicates things.’ Looking up at the house. ‘We’ve got Sean McGilvary’s DNA at the crime scene. But he’s in custody, so who’s Ryan?’

Dr Fife reapplied the wadding. ‘He’s the Pizza Man. He and Kate Paisley were at Dr Fordyce’s apartment. Fifty bucks says he’s the Fortnight Killer.’

‘He’s not just...’ Monroe opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. ‘I don’t know, some random thug weirdo?’

‘Fifty bucks.’

‘Then why’s Sean McGilvary’s DNA all over the Healey-Robinsons’ house?’

Angus had a go: ‘Maybe the Fortnight Killer’s got more than one accomplice?’

The wind moaned through the chain-link as they both stared at him in silence.

‘Well, it’s possible, right?’

Monroe didn’t look convinced. ‘Dr Fife?’

‘Of course it’s possible. But so are lots of things.’ He dabbed at his scarlet-crusted nostrils. ‘I’ll want to speak to him.’

A nod. ‘Family solicitor’s on her way.’ Then Monroe rolled his eyes at Angus. ‘More than one accomplice. Like things aren’t difficult enough.’

‘Sorry, Boss.’

Monroe raised a finger and pointed at the pair of them. ‘I want one thing clear: in future, if I tell you to sit on your thumbs, you lube them up and you sit. Understand? Might not be so lucky next time.’

‘Lucky?’ Dr Fife scowled at him over the top of the blood-drenched gauze. ‘Hello?’

‘OK. OK.’ DS Sharp had been lurking in the background, but she stepped in. ‘Let’s not get all heated again. The important thing is no one got hurt.’

Dr Fife glared at her. ‘You can see this, right?’

‘So to speak.’ Giving him a pained smile. ‘We’ll send Forensics in, search the place, find out who our gunman is, and he’ll be banged-up before you know it.’

Monroe huffed out a breath. Then nodded. ‘Angus: hotfoot it back to the bunker and get Byron to take your statement. Then I want an eFit ready to go to the press. We’ll see if anyone recognizes...’ He narrowed his eyes as Angus grimaced. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t really get a good look at him, Boss. He had his back to me most of the time — running away. Well, till he started shooting, and I sort of hit the ground at that point. Then he was too far away.’ Angus shuffled his feet on the damp tarmac. ‘Sorry.’

‘Wonderful.’ Monroe closed his eyes, scrunching them tight to keep down whatever was bubbling away inside. ‘Dr Fife?’

‘I was a bit busy getting my ass kicked.’ Pointing at his battered face and the big wodge of padding. ‘You can see this, right?’

Everyone sagged.

Come on, things weren’t that bad, surely.

Angus stood up straight. ‘Yes, but we’ve got two suspects in custody. That’s a huge improvement, isn’t it?’

Nobody said a word.

Turned out his fake enthusiasm wasn’t as infectious as genuine disappointment.

Monroe chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then marched away towards the house, pointing as he went. ‘MONSTER MUNCH: I WANT THIS PROPERTY SECURED! NO ONE IN OR OUT TILL I SAY OTHERWISE! LAURA: DOOR-TO-DOORS!’

Monster Munch flashed a thumbs-up. ‘Aye, Boss.’

DS Sharp nodded. ‘Got it.’ Stepping away from the car and clapping her hands together. ‘COME ON, YOU LOT, YOU HEARD THE MAN: ERNIE, MAGS, WEE HAIRY, KATHERINE. LET’S GO!’

And off they went.

19

Observation Room A had the same cabbage-and-stale-feet smell that haunted nearly every police station in O Division. It also had three monitors, a single bench-style desk along one wall, a couple of teeny microphones on bendy metal sticks, and two seats.

Dr Fife had got into the filing-cabinet stash of Rampant Gorilla, and now he was on his second oversized can, vibrating gently in his plastic chair, feet twitching in mid-air.

DCI Monroe had the other seat, leaving Angus to prop himself against the back wall as they all watched the monitors.

On the plus side, it meant neither Monroe nor Fife could see him yawning. And the wall hid the rip in his trousers. So there was that.

Each of the three monitors showed a different view of Interview Room Two: a plain space with white walls bisected by a grey panic strip. Four people had gathered around the table. Kate Paisley had pride of place in the Naughty Chair — the only one bolted to the floor, for ‘safety’ reasons. She’d changed into a white Tyvek suit, because someone had taken her clothes into evidence, and she slouched there with the hood thrown back, casting narrow-eyed glares at the cameras. As if she could see the three of them watching her from the safety of the observation room.

Mr Coulter sat next to her, with his puffy eyes and cheeks, side parting, glasses, and the general air of a dishevelled hamster. His face glowed an unhealthy shade of puce, as if he probably wasn’t going to see his sixties. Apparently being a duty solicitor really took it out of you.

DI Cohen and DS Massie had the other side of the table, an array of notebooks and files laid out before them.

Kate Paisley stopped glaring at Camera One to glare at Cohen instead. Her voice crackled out from the observation room speakers: ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

Her jaw tightened. ‘You know fine.’ Bringing up an angry finger to point at them both. ‘All you bastards do. Cos you’re all in on it. I know you are, so don’t try lying to me, cos you can’t.’

And she’d seemed so nice when Angus had wrestled her into handcuffs...

Dr Fife scoofed his energy drink. Cowboy boots juddering away.

Monroe sighed.

Kate Paisley glared.

Onscreen, DS Massie reached into a folder and emerged with a screenshot from Mrs McManus’s doorbell footage: the Pizza Man, Ryan, caught halfway to the stairs, carrying his decoy takeaways.

It went on the table. ‘OK. Why don’t we try this one again?’ DS Massie tapped the picture. ‘What’s your friend’s name?’

Paisley didn’t even look. ‘I’ve never seen that man before in my life.’

‘You shouted, “Ryan, watch out, the police are—”’

‘No I never! That’s just lies. You bastards always lie, because you’re the jackboot on our neck, keeping the Elites in power. Bunch of fascists: with your lockdowns and your poison jabs and your deep-state lies!’

Monroe sat back in his chair. ‘The woman’s an idiot. How on earth did she qualify as an electrician? I wouldn’t trust her to rewire a sieve.’ He drummed his fingers on the worktop-bench. Looked over at Dr Fife. ‘Can’t you do something?’

‘OK. How about this man?’ DS Massie put another photo on the table. A mugshot this time, of a spud-faced bloke whose features were too small to make out clearly on the monitors.

‘Told you: I — don’t — know. Never seen him.’

Mr Coulter sounded as if he’d just run a marathon with a fridge-freezer strapped to his back. ‘DS Massie, please. We’ve been over this four times now. My client doesn’t recognize this person. Move on.’

Dr Fife pushed the red button mounted beside the nearest microphone, leaning into it. Still sounding a bit bunged up, but better than before. ‘Ask her if she knows Ryan’s been on social media telling everyone she’s the one who betrayed him. She’s the one called the cops.’

Onscreen, DI Cohen gave a little nod, then pulled on a puzzled voice. ‘Kate, if you don’t want to cooperate, why did you tip us off about Ryan?’ Pausing as she shied back, then leaning in to follow her. ‘The anonymous tip line: there must’ve been a reason you phoned it. To say he’d be there?’

Dr Fife threw his free hand in the air. ‘Oh, now he can improvise.’

Paisley squirmed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you bastards gave a toss about law and order, you wouldn’t be hassling innocent people like me, you’d be arresting the paedophiles running this country.’

‘You did contact us, didn’t you?’ Cohen pulled out his phone, scrolling away at it as he frowned. ‘That’s what Ryan’s telling everyone on Twitter.’

A shuddery yawn rattled through Angus, ending in a wee burp. ‘Sorry.’

Monroe turned in his chair, wrinkles bunched between his eyebrows.

Angus stared at his feet for a bit.

‘They’re stealing kids off the streets, and not just migrant kids: white kids. Butchering them at these satanic rituals, cos the blood’s more pure.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Drinking it gives them power!’

Because why be a halfwit conspiracy nutjob, when you could be a racist halfwit conspiracy nutjob?

There was a knock on the door, and DS Sharp poked her head into the observation room. ‘Boss? Sean McGilvary’s solicitor says they’re ready to talk.’

‘Oh, does he now?’ Monroe curled his top lip. ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’

‘Look what he posted half an hour ago.’ DI Cohen peered down his nose at his phone. ‘“Betrayed! Bastard pigs raided the place, cos that stupid cow, Kate, grassed me up.” Hashtag “traitor”, hashtag “enemy of the people”, hashtag “lying bitch”.’

Dr Fife poked the intercom button. ‘Don’t lay it on so thick!’

Kate Paisley’s mouth pinched, eyebrows lowering as her bottom lip crept out, blinking and wriggling in her chair. Jaw clenching and unclenching. She stared down at her clawed hands.

‘Come on’ — Monroe inched closer to the monitor — ‘take the bait...’

Her head curled to one side, left shoulder creeping up.

Another yawn ripped through Angus — a proper jaw-breaker, that even infected DS Sharp. But she covered her mouth.

Monroe turned on him again. ‘For God’s sake, will you go home and get some sleep?’

On the screen, Kate Paisley’s face set into a hard line. ‘Told you: you can’t lie to me. I know all your tricks.’

Dr Fife slumped in his seat. ‘What an utter Nimrod...’ Staring at the ceiling tiles. ‘Amateurs. I’m working with frigging amateurs here!’

She turned to her solicitor. ‘I got nothing more to say to these bastards.’

Mr Coulter let free a big wet sigh, then put the cap back on his biro. ‘Maybe now would be a good time to take a break?’

‘Pricking hell.’ Monroe scowled at the screen, chewing on something bitter. Then pulled in a deep breath. ‘All right. We’ll go see what Sean McGilvary has to say for himself.’ He pressed the button. ‘Badger: take her back to her cell.’ Flicking a switch killed the audio feed, so DI Cohen and DS Massie wrapped the interview up in complete silence.

One last scoof of Rampant Gorilla, draining the can. ‘Well, that was a complete disaster.’

‘Urgh...’ Monroe covered his face. ‘We’ve got, what, twenty-three hours?’

‘Tops.’ The empty tin got crushed and lobbed at the bin. Bounced off the wall with a clang, and went skittering across the floor tiles. ‘More like twenty. If we’re lucky.’

‘Then let’s hope Sean McGilvary’s more talkative.’ He stood. ‘Laura: soon as Paisley’s back in her cell, stick McGilvary in Interview Four. I do not want them bumping into each other on the stairs, or the custody suite.’

‘Boss.’ A frown. ‘Who do you want on interview duty? Byron’s done the training, or—’

‘No.’ Dr Fife hopped down from his seat. ‘No more puppeteering halfwits through a headset: I’ll do it.’ Snapping his fingers. ‘Angus, in case anything kicks off, I need you to intervene before the bastard jumps me. Unlike last time.’

‘I didn’t even want to ring the doorbell!’

‘Meantime, I’m off for a wizz. If you could all avoid doing anything stupid till I get back, that’d be great.’

The door thumped shut behind him.

A grimace from Monroe. DS Sharp bit her top lip. Then they both turned and eyed Angus.

‘Don’t look at me. I’m just a slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging yokel.’

‘Yes. Well.’ Monroe plucked the crumpled can from the floor and dropped it in the bin. ‘Let’s hope he knows what he’s doing...’

Interview Room Four was pretty much the same as Interview Room One, only with more disturbing brown stains on the carpet. And up one of the walls.

This time, the Naughty Chair was occupied by the potato-faced bloke from DS Massie’s photo. Sean McGilvary was thin as a standard lamp, with bitten fingernails, a shaved head — not that there was much hair to shave up there, going by the thin tonsure of blue stubble — and a pronounced lean to the right.

Luckily for Mr Coulter, Sean hadn’t requested a duty solicitor, so he could slink off somewhere to sleep. Or die. Instead, Sean had called in the family lawyer: Mrs Hannay.

She looked like something from an ancient BBC sitcom now repeating on an obscure digital channel: a maternal sort in an off-pink cardigan and sage-green top. Tweed skirt, heavy boots. Big hair. Nails like talons.

She ran them across the ring binder in front of her, then straightened her pen. All neat and tidy.

Dr Fife and DCI Monroe sat opposite — Monroe still as a garden gnome, Fife flicking through Sean’s file. Taking his time. No rush. Whistling a jaunty American tune as he went.

Which left Angus: standing two or three feet behind Sean McGilvary, doing his best to exude an air of authoritative menace. Which wasn’t easy, given he’d had to shuffle his way in here, keeping his back to the wall, so no one could see the rip in his trousers.

And the jaunty whistling warbled on.

‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ was on its third time around when Mrs Hannay checked her watch. ‘If we can get started, please; I’ve got people over for dinner and salmon mousse will only hold for so long.’

Dr Fife held up a finger and continued whistling his way through the file.

Sean McGilvary fidgeted.

The audio-visual recording equipment buzzed.

Monroe remained perfectly still.

Angus did some more menacingly authoritative exuding.

A huge sigh from Mrs Hannay. ‘Can we at least read our statement?’ She unclipped it from her binder. ‘Sean may have done a few slightly questionable things in his youth, but he comes from a good, traditional, God-fearing family. I assure you we can clear this up easily and get back to our guests. And investigation.’ She handed the sheet of paper to her client. ‘Sean?’

He fidgeted with it for a bit. Licked his lips. Then had a go, his voice all high-pitched and stilted — as if he’d never read anything out loud in a police interview room while facing a murder charge before: ‘“First, I wish to express my condolences to Mr and... Mr Healey-Robinson’s friends and family for the tragic circumstances of their deaths. To lose a loved one in those circumstances must be—”’

‘This is all a bit out of your league, isn’t it, Sean?’ Dr Fife tapped the file in his hands.

‘Eh?’ Sean McGilvary glanced at his lawyer for approval, then went back to the statement. ‘I’m... Er... “To lose a loved one—”’

‘Shoplifting’s a world away from torturing people to death.’ Dr Fife pursed his lips. ‘What did it feel like, the first time you killed somebody?’

The talons clacked against the tabletop. ‘Sean didn’t kill anyone. Now can we please let the boy read his statement?’

A smile. ‘Twenty-eight’s hardly a “boy”, is it? I’m just trying to make this easier for him in the long run. You don’t want to do this the hard way, do you, Sean?’

She nudged her client. ‘Keep going.’

‘“To lose a loved one in those circumstances must be horrible, and my thoughts and prayers are with them. But I must stress, in no uncertain terms, that I had nothing to do with these two gentlemen’s deaths.”’

Back to the file. ‘All this vandalism... petty stuff, really.’ Dr Fife pulled a trio of photos from amongst the printouts and forms, and laid them on the table. Graffiti scrawled across a bookie’s shopfront, a bus shelter with its windows smashed, a melted wheelie bin round the back of a convenience store.

‘“I am not now, nor have I ever been, homophobic. I have great respect for the gay community and some of my best friends are LGBTQ-plus. I understand from the arresting officer—”’

‘You come from a “good, traditional, God-fearing family” and you don’t have a problem with gay people? Really? Doesn’t St Thingummy say they’re an abhorrence?’

Sean stiffened. ‘Leviticus. Eighteen: twenty-two. “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.” Twenty: thirteen. “If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.”’

A slow clap as Dr Fife grinned. ‘Scripture: chapter and verse. You gotta love that old King James thee-and-thouing, right?’ The clapping stopped. ‘And here we have two gay men who’ve been “put to death”.’

‘Please let my client finish, Dr Fife. This is not helping.’

‘“I...”’ Sean licked his lips. ‘“I understand from the arresting officer that my DNA has been found at number twenty-one Balvenie Row. This may be due to cross-contamination as I had spoken to Mr Healey-Robinson about an article he was writing for the Castle News and Post earlier that week.”’

‘Oh. OK then.’ Dr Fife closed the file. ‘That clears everything up.’ He hopped down from his chair. ‘Sorry to have spoiled your evening.’

Sean blinked a couple of times, then turned to his lawyer. ‘Is that it? Can I go now?’

Dr Fife slammed the file down on the table. ‘Of course you can’t, you idiot. They’ve got your DNA in the kitchen, the living room, both bedrooms, and the bathroom. For that to be “cross-contamination” you’d have to lick Kevin Healey-Robinson all over and rub him on every surface in the place.’ He shook his head at Mrs Hannay. ‘Shall we leave you two alone to cook up some slightly more convincing lies?’

She sat up straight, talons gripping the Holy Ring Binder, colour flushing in her cheeks. ‘You being rude and sarcastic doesn’t rule out cross-contamination!’

‘No, but this does.’ He pulled a sheet from the file and held it up. ‘They found a thumb print on the banister, near the top of the stairs, Sean. Clean as a kitten’s conscience. And who do you think’s a perfect match? Hmm? Wanna guess?’

Mrs Hannay cast a sharp look at her client.

Sean blushed and took a sudden, all-consuming interest in what was left of his gnawed-off fingernails.

‘You haven’t been entirely honest with your lawyer, have you, Sean.’

‘I... But...’

Dr Fife pulled on a pouty frown. ‘And after she wrote that nice statement for you. How ungrateful.’

‘I need to have a word with my client.’ The words came out like frozen bullets, fired right into Sean McGilvary’s beetroot face. ‘This instant.’

‘But...’

‘Good idea.’ Dr Fife gathered up the file again. ‘A clip round the ear might not hurt, too.’ Hauling the door open and swaggering from the room. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes.’

The door swung shut behind him.

A tut from DCI Monroe. He stood, looking down at Sean McGilvary with sad eyes. ‘It’s only a matter of time, Sean. The longer you lie to us, the worse it’ll be when it comes to sentencing.’ He jerked his chin at Angus. ‘Constable.’ Then headed out to join Dr Fife.

Keeping his back firmly to the wall, Angus shuffled after him.

20

Just for a change, this was one of the few corridors in DHQ not plastered in motivational posters and memos. Instead, the suspects and inmates were treated to loads of adverts recommending they ‘CALL CRIMESTOPPERS’ and to ‘SEE IT, SAY IT, SORT IT’.

Monroe paced the grey terrazzo floor from here to Interview Four and back again, curled in around his phone. ‘How much?... For a dishwasher? Is it magic? Does it make the plates come alive and dance around the room?... OK, OK...’ Massaging his forehead with his free hand. ‘Yes... If that’s the one you want... Uh-huh.’

Angus shuffled his feet. ‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’

‘Keeping an open mind.’ Dr Fife closed his eyes and let his head ponk back against the wall.

‘No, I’m not being sarcastic, Irene: if it’s important to you... Uh-huh... OK...’

DS Massie wandered up to them, bearing one of those wee cardboard carrier things with three large wax-paper cups in it. Levered one free and handed it to Monroe.

He mouthed a ‘thank you’ and went back to his call. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is... Uh-huh... Huh. Really?’

‘Angus.’ Massie held out a second cup.

Which was pretty much unheard of.

A detective sergeant getting the coffees in for a lowly detective constable?

Must be because of the almost-getting-shot thing.

‘Thanks, Sarge.’ Ooh, it was lovely and warm in his hands.

She pulled the third one from the holder and toasted them with it. ‘Cheers.’ Slurping through the little hole in the spill-proof lid. ‘Any joy?’

‘Hold on a minute, Irene.’ Monroe pressed the phone against his chest. ‘McGilvary’s working on a fresh set of lies with his solicitor.’

‘Ahem!’ Dr Fife pointed. ‘Where’s mine?’

Her face didn’t move. ‘Didn’t know you wanted one.’ Another sip, followed by a humming mmmmmmm... of deliciousness. ‘Anyway, thought you said our coffee was like “shite boiled in battery acid”.’

Monroe winced. ‘Rhona.’

DS Massie rolled her eyes. ‘OK, OK. He can have DC MacVicar’s.’ She plucked the coffee from Angus’s hands and gave it to Dr Fife.

Bloody hell.

Knew it was too good to be true.

‘Don’t pout.’ DS Massie took a good long slurp, rubbing it in. ‘They’ve found your green Volkswagen Polo in that big patch of woods off Robertson Road.’ Everyone stared at her, the expectation and hope thick enough to make the air sticky. But she shook her head. ‘Nah: Ryan torched it. Nothing left but blistered metal and melted tyres. No prints, no DNA, no conveniently dropped driver’s licence...’

Dr Fife cracked the lid off Angus’s coffee. ‘You need to put out an APB: appeal for witnesses.’

‘Oh yeah, great idea. Why didn’t we think of that?’ The look she gave him could’ve withered granite. ‘Only we don’t know if it’s his actual name, and no one from the door-to-doors had a clue who was living in the house. Only that they were “nice, but a bit weird” — which is saying something for Kingsmeath. A description would help, but apparently you and the Boy Wonder can’t remember what “Ryan” looks like.’ A sniff. ‘Maybe that’s why?’

He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘You’re pretty sexy when you’re sarcastic.’

‘But...’ DS Massie stared at him. Blinked. Her mouth hanging open. ‘Wait... what?’ Her jaw clamped shut, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you looking for a punch in the face?’

Monroe stopped pacing. ‘Irene, I’ve got to go.’ Sticking his phone away as he marched over. ‘Will the pair of you try to act like professionals?’

DS Massie glared at Dr Fife; Dr Fife smiled back.

‘Rhona.’

She looked away. Rolled one shoulder. Had some more coffee.

Angus stretched.

Dr Fife had an evil wee grin to himself.

Monroe sagged against the wall, gazing back along the corridor, towards Interview Four. ‘I miss the good old days, when CID would dangle people off the roof by their ankles till they confessed.’

What?

He raised a hand before Angus could say anything. ‘Metaphorically, of course.’ The sag turned into a slump. ‘We’ve got six dead, a gun-toting maniac on the loose, and...’ He turned to Dr Fife. ‘Any chance the Fortnight Killer doesn’t strike tomorrow?’

‘Depends.’ Back to his stolen coffee. ‘On lots of things.’

Helpful, as always.

A sudden burring in his pocket made Angus flinch, as if a wasp was trapped in there. But it was followed by a ding. Incoming text message.

He stepped away to see what it was, leaving DS Massie to have another go at Dr Fife for being about as much use as ‘a chocolate butt plug’.

ELLIE:

Ding.

ELLIE:

To be honest, calling Plastic Colin a philistine was an insult to philistines. The man had a Jar Jar Binks duvet cover.

Ding.

ELLIE:

Oh, in the name of the buggering shite...

Ding.

ELLIE:

Angus curled up like a snail, face scrunched tight.

It’s OK, you can do this.

Somehow...

He dragged in a deep breath and straightened up.

Everyone was looking at him, as if he’d just pooped — right there in the middle of the corridor.

He cleared his throat. ‘Boss, can I have a quick word? In private? It’s important.’

‘Oh, today just gets better and better.’ DCI Monroe covered his face with his hands and thumped back against the filing cabinet, setting the remaining tins of Rampant Gorilla rattle-clanking together.

The heating was cranked up full pelt, turning Dr Fife’s office into a depressing magnolia sauna that still held a faint whiff of Chinese spices and takeaway grease.

Monroe peeked through his fingers at Angus. ‘They can’t print! They print a big article about Dr Fife, and Dr Fife fucks off, and this time tomorrow we’ve got no forensic psychologist and two more victims!’

‘That’s what I said. But the Castle News and Post want something in exchange.’

‘Why me...’ He dropped his hands and stared up at the stained ceiling tiles for a bit.

Angus folded his arms. Then unfolded them again.

At least it wasn’t just his problem any more.

That was some progress.

Finally, Monroe straightened up again, decision made. ‘So we give them something. Something that’s not going to scupper the investigation, but juicy enough to keep them from buggering everything up.’ He took a good long look at Angus. ‘You.’

‘Boss?’ Hands up. ‘I didn’t tell them about Dr Fife, I swear!’

‘No. Not that. You’re now, officially, the hero of Sadler Road. Your journalist friend wants a human-interest story? Give her one.’

Heat sizzled up Angus’s cheeks, what with the double entendre and everything. ‘But I’m not—’

‘You want two more people to die?’

‘No, but—’

‘Only don’t tell her anything about why you went to number one-thirty-two, or who we really think you were chasing. Can’t risk some smartarse defence lawyer whining that we’ve prejudiced the jury.’

A quick rat-a-tat-tat, then DS Massie’s head popped around the door. Not bothering to wait for an invitation. ‘Boss? It’s...’ She frowned at Angus. ‘Constable MacVicar, I’m as keen on a nice arse in sexy pants as the next girl, but maybe don’t show yours off at work, eh? It’s not professional.’

Heat flushed up Angus’s face again. He snatched a post-mortem file from the desk, using it to cover his ripped trousers. ‘I haven’t been home to change!’

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘That’s McGilvary and his solicitor ready to go, Boss.’

Monroe hissed out a long breath. ‘Ding-ding, round two.’

Dr Fife and DCI Monroe settled back into their seats as Angus assumed the looming position again.

Something had changed in Interview Four, though — Mrs Hannay’s face was a mask of disapproval, nostrils flaring every time she so much as glanced at her client. Sean McGilvary, on the other hand, looked as if someone had run over him with a belt sander.

Mrs Hannay made a big show of thumping open her ring binder, unsnapping the clip, and pulling a sheet of paper free. ‘This time, if we could please refrain from interrupting the statement before it’s been read?’ She slapped it down in front of Sean. ‘That would be lovely.’

Monroe adopted the same stoical silence, but Dr Fife raised an eyebrow. As if something had just occurred to him. But he kept whatever it was to himself — just made a little twirly after-you gesture.

Mrs Hannay sniffed. ‘Go ahead, Sean.’

‘OK... Right.’ Deep breath. ‘“I would like to begin by apologizing for my previous statement. It was wrong of me to mislead my solicitor after she has been so kind to me and my family for all these years.”’ He cast her a worried look, but she kept her eyes fixed front. ‘“The reason my DNA and fingerprint appeared at Douglas Healey-Robinson’s house is because...”’ Sean’s mouth worked on the words for a soundless moment, then he coughed.

Cricked his neck to one side.

Put the statement down.

Flexed his hands.

Picked it up again. ‘“...is because I broke in on the twenty-seventh of February — which is three days before they were attacked — and stole a number of electronic items, jewellery, and a small amount of cash. These...”’ A pale-yellow tongue poked between his teeth, pulling his top lip in to be bitten. Followed by a trembling exhale. ‘“These I sold to private individuals in pubs around the Blackwall Hill area. I do not know those individuals’ names. Nor did I wish to know.”’

He placed the statement down on the tabletop in front of him, and stared at it. ‘“It was the first time I burgled a house, and I have not done so since. Having dabbled in theft from shops before, this felt like a logical progression, but I am deeply ashamed by my actions and apologize and accept any punishment the legal system deems appropriate.”’ With that said he shoved the statement across the table towards Dr Fife, then drooped. Shrugged. Not making eye contact with anyone. ‘That’s it.’

A childish signature was scrawled at the bottom, along with today’s date.

Sitting next to him, Mrs Hannay radiated righteous disapproval.

One of Monroe’s eyes twitched.

Dr Fife tilted his head to the side, like Wee Hamish did when he heard a packet of crisps opening. Only instead of piteous whining noises, Dr Fife went ‘Hmmmmmmm...’

‘So you see’ — Mrs Hannay straightened her ring binder — ‘there was a perfectly reasonable explanation and Sean should be cautioned, then released awaiting a trial date if you choose to prosecute for burglary.’ A grim smile flirted with her thin lips, but didn’t even get to first base. ‘Though I think it’s fair to assume that Mr and Mr Healey-Robinson won’t be pressing charges?’

Flipping heck. Talk about heartless.

Dr Fife’s palms smacked together, then again, and again, building in speed till it was a one-man round of applause. ‘Bravo! Bravissimo!’

OK... Not what anyone was expecting, going by the looks they were giving him.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Mrs Hannay slammed her ring binder shut. ‘Is this supposed to be some sort of—’

‘Have to admire the commitment there, Sean. “I broke in three days before they died”, “I stole jewellery and cash”.’ Dr Fife lowered his voice and sat forward, closing the gap. ‘You had these idiots going, but I’m the kinda guy who knows when people are lying to me.’

‘I... I don’t...’

‘You see, when someone lies, they give off little micro-expressions without even knowing it. The way your eyes move, the muscles either side of your lips, the way your fingers curl, eyebrows twitch... Your body’s screaming “IT’S ALL LIES!”’ Bellowing that last bit out.

Sean jerked back in his seat, unable to escape because it was bolted to the floor.

Mrs Hannay glared down her nose at Dr Fife. ‘I don’t think this is appropriate—’

‘“I am deeply ashamed by my actions.” That’s the only thing you’ve said that’s true, isn’t it?’

Pink flushed into Sean’s face, turning the tips of his ears an angry shade of beetroot. ‘It... I... I didn’t... It...’

‘Isn’t it?’

He licked his lips. Stared at Dr Fife, blinking as his eyes shimmered. Then a nod, mouth clamped tight. A single tear splatched on the tabletop.

Mrs Hannay turned to look at him for the first time, her voice low and warning. ‘Sean.’

‘Why do you feel ashamed, Sean?’

A second tear joined the first. ‘Because... Because of what I did.’

‘I need to talk to my client again.’

‘Is it because they were an “abomination”, Sean?’ Dr Fife poked the tabletop, emphasizing each word: ‘What — did — you — do?’

Sean took a huge breath and sat up straight, fists clenched in front of him. Knuckles white with the pressure.

Mrs Hannay grabbed his arm. ‘Sean!’ She glared at Monroe. ‘I insist you suspend this interview so I can—’

‘I did it!’ Tears rolled down Sean McGilvary’s cheeks, glittering in the interview room’s lights as a shiny skein of snot spread across his top lip. ‘I killed them!’

He lowered his head, dripping tears onto his trembling fists.

Dr Fife raised an eyebrow and sat back, mouth puckered as if he was trying not to grin.

DCI Monroe, on the other hand, gave in to temptation.

‘Enough!’ Mrs Hannay slammed her hand down on her binder. ‘I demand a break to talk to my client!’

The SOC suit rustled as Sean wiped his nose on its sleeve. ‘They... They were dirty sodomites... and I killed them! I—’

‘I SAID ENOUGH!’ Mrs Hannay lurched to her feet. ‘If you continue to interrogate my client, I will file a complaint.’ Standing there, trembling and bug-eyed, finger pointing right at Monroe’s face.

He looked back at her, gave a wee smiling shrug. ‘Why not.’ Then reached for the audio-visual controls. ‘Interview suspended at nineteen fifty-eight.’

21

Angus stuck two fingers between the dusty slats and levered himself a wee gap in the venetian blinds. Peering out at the Front Podium, four floors below.

The press had gathered outside Divisional Headquarters again, braving the rain for yet another episode of Things Aren’t Going Well for Operation Telegram. They glittered in the darkness, with their lights and camera flashes, even though there was still an hour and three-quarters to go before the ten o’clock bulletins.

Those protestors had turned up too, their number swollen to five now that ‘STOP NATO WARMONGERS!’ had joined the crusade for ‘truth’, ‘justice’, and the right to look like a proper tit on national television.

Ooh, there was Gillian.

She couldn’t possibly see him from down there, but he gave her a little wave anyway.

Back in the real world, DCI Monroe’s voice had taken on a whiny edge. ‘But why?’

Angus dropped the blinds and turned back to the incident room. Covering his mouth as a colossal yawn tried to take the top of his head off.

Not that anyone saw — Monroe, DS Massie, and DS Sharp were all too busy watching Dr Fife wearing a groove in the carpet tiles. Pacing back and forth, face scrunched up in a frown, hands twitching like unhappy spiders.

‘Because if we release a statement saying we’ve caught the Fortnight Killer and two more people die, we’ll look like a bunch of clueless assholes.’

DS Massie glowered, arms folded, legs crossed, bum perched on Monster Munch’s vacant desk. ‘He confessed, for God’s sake!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, do you want a repeat of Patrick Crombie?’

‘It’s not the same thing at—’

‘Yes it is!’ Dr Fife stopped pacing and waved a hand at the windows instead. ‘Ryan is still out there!’

‘Boss: tell him!’

Monroe had his arms folded too. ‘Sean McGilvary confessed, Dr Fife. He’s the Fortnight Killer.’

‘Then what the hell was Ryan doing in Dr Fordyce’s apartment block, disguised as a pizza-delivery guy when no one in the building ordered pizza? Why was Kate Paisley there helping him?’

‘Well’ — DS Sharp raised a finger — ‘maybe they were casing the joint for a burglary? A real one this time.’

‘He tried to shoot my sidekick!’

Angus joined the Folded Arms Club. ‘Who has a name, thank you.’

Dr Fife waved the complaint away. ‘Does that sound like the kinda guy who breaks in and steals your stereo?’ And back to pacing again. ‘No. There’s more to it than that.’

She shrugged. ‘We’ve got to tell the press something.’

‘Maybe Sidekick Boy was right? Maybe the Fortnight Killer does have more than one accomplice?’ He snapped his fingers, snap, snap, snap. ‘Sean McGilvary: you find his DNA or prints at any of the other crime scenes?’

A snort from DS Massie. ‘Course not. They would’ve pinged up a hit in the database. Thieving wee git’s been processed for nicking things often enough.’

‘But we’re supposed to believe a guy who’s planned his killing spree like a military campaign suddenly can’t be assed wearing gloves for a murder?’ Fife got as far as the filing cabinets and started back again. ‘I don’t buy it. And if you do, I’ve got a social media website to sell you.’

Maybe it was time for Angus to save the day again?

He put his hand up. ‘What if... they’re in different cells? You know, like a terrorist organization? Ryan kills the Fordyces, Sean kills the Healey-Robinsons. Maybe someone else killed the Councillor and his wife?’ Made sense, didn’t it? ‘Maybe that’s why the MO hasn’t developed?’ This time the yawn was on him too quickly to stifle or hide, ending with a full-body tremble. ‘Sorry.’

Monroe scowled. ‘Three sets of killers? That’s all we need.’

The yawn got its claws into Dr Fife and he let rip one of his own. ‘The boy’s got a point.’ Scrubbing at his face. ‘It’s wrong, but at least he’s trying.’

Always nice to be appreciated.

DS Kilgour slumped into the room. Standing semi-upright he looked even more like a bear than he’d done sitting down. ‘There you are.’ He collapsed into a vacant office chair and slouched it around till it faced in Monroe’s direction. Held up a folder. ‘Preliminary search results on Sadler Road.’

‘Gimme.’ DS Massie snatched them.

‘Loads of fingerprints, but so far...’ The yawn claimed another victim, showing off all of Kilgour’s molars. Which set Angus off again. And Dr Fife. Kilgour threw in a stretch for good luck. ‘The only match we’ve got is Kate Paisley, which is what we call “Sod-All Use”.’

Massie flipped through the folder. ‘DNA, DNA, DNA... Oh, for buggering hell.’ She held out a sheet to Monroe. ‘Going to be tomorrow morning before they’ve processed and cross-checked the samples.’

‘Shock horror.’ Kilgour pointed at the file. ‘Neighbours can’t agree if there were two, three, or five-point-four million people living there. Other than that, it’s just a bog-standard three-bedroom semi.’ He swivelled his chair, taking in the whole group. ‘I miss anything?’

‘Oh yeah.’

Monroe threw his arms up, letting them slap back down against his sides. ‘So what are we going to tell the press?’

‘You’re gonna tell them nothing.’ Dr Fife made a U-turn at the whiteboards. ‘Until we got corroboration on Sean McGilvary’s story, it’s “Someone’s assisting with our inquiries”, but that’s all. Anything else’s gonna bite us on the ass. Long as Ryan’s still out there, it’s too risky.’

DS Massie tossed the file back to Kilgour. ‘Could have another crack at Kate Paisley?’

‘Nah.’ Fife shook his head. ‘She won’t turn on Ryan. Our dark satanic messenger is more than a friend or lover to her. More than family. She’s...’ His finger-spiders searched for the word. ‘...a disciple.’

‘Erm...’ Angus put his hand up again. ‘“Dark satanic”...?’

‘The Post-its.’ Tapping his forehead as he paced. ‘“Don’t believe their lies”.’

Ah, OK.

Angus opened his mouth to point out that Ryan must be pretty pissed off that they were keeping his messages secret, but all that came out was another mammoth, wobbly yawn.

‘For God’s sake.’ Monroe jabbed a finger at the door. ‘I’m not telling you again: go home! That’s an order.’

‘But—’

‘And make sure you take care of that... friend of yours.’ The Boss cast a sneaky glance at Dr Fife, who was too busy with a yawn of his own to notice. ‘“The Hero of Sadler Road”, et cetera. Before anything horrible happens. Go.’

The finger was resolute, and so was the frown.

Fair enough.

Angus picked up his crumpled, grass-and-nettle-stained jacket and pulled it on as he slouched towards the door. Taking his time, just in case DCI Monroe changed his mind and realized what a vital cog he was in the—

‘Hoy!’ DS Massie threw a scrunched-up biscuit wrapper at him. ‘And get something to cover your backside on the way, before some poor auld wifie has a stroke!’

Oh, for...

Grabbing the coat-tails of his jacket with one hand, he pulled them down as far as they would go, reaching for the door with the other.

But just as his fingertips brushed the handle, it jerked down, the door flew open, and thumped right into his chest — twice in one day — swiftly followed by the uniformed officer trying to stride in after it.

PC Pirie jerked to a halt: shortish and small-nosed, with long brown hair wrapped up in a cottage-loaf bun. Big bags under her eyes, as if she had a hyperactive seven-year-old to look after at home. ‘Gah!’ She extracted herself from the door and walloped Angus on the arm. ‘Don’t do that!’ Then peered around Angus into the room. ‘Boss? Sean McGilvary’s brief says they’re ready.’

‘Thanks.’ He frowned a moment. ‘How’s Peanut?’

‘A massive pain in my arse, Boss.’

‘Yeah, kids will do that.’ He picked up his interview notes. ‘Dr Fife, shall we?’

They made for the corridor, meaning Angus had to back out of the way to let them through — PC Pirie giving him a blast of evil eye on the way past.

She marched away towards the stairwell, with Dr Fife and DCI Monroe in tow.

Angus fell in behind them.

Monroe stopped. Turned. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Weird question.

‘I’m... you know: looming?’

A quick check over his shoulder to make sure Dr Fife was out of earshot, then Monroe lowered his voice to a sharp-edged whisper. ‘No you flipping aren’t: you’ve got a journalist to distract so You Know Who doesn’t end up on the front page, remember?’

Oh, sod.

‘Yes, but if Sean McGilvary—’

Monroe’s hand landed on Angus’s arm and gave it a squeeze. ‘I genuinely think we can cope without you, Constable. We can’t cope without Dr Fife.’ Letting go to point again. ‘Go!’

Suppose he had no choice.

Angus deflated a bit. ‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Good.’ Then Monroe turned on his heel and marched off a couple of paces, before stopping and scuttling back. ‘And try to push the whole “Do you recognize this man?” angle. Be nice if the Castle News and Post actually helped for a change.’ A nod, and he was off, hurrying to catch up with Dr Fife and PC Pirie.

Great...

Angus pulled out his phone and messaged Ellie:

At least someone would be happy.

Drizzle misted down from the scorched-terracotta clouds.

Angus tugged the hem of his borrowed XXL high-vis jacket down again, even though it was more than long enough to cover the hole in his trousers. The outfit wasn’t exactly subtle — crumpled dirty suit, filthy shoes, a fluorescent-yellow waterproof with ‘POLICE’ across the back in reflective letters — so he slunk along the other side of the road, steering clear of the mob.

With an hour and a quarter to go till showtime, the assembled TV people were mingling with the online and print journalists, eating deep-fried foods and smoking fags before the work of setting-up began.

The other protestors had disappeared off somewhere, leaving Gillian to guard their placards, bundled up in that biker jacket of hers, knackered umbrella pinned between neck and shoulder as she poured something hot from a thermos into its plastic-cup-lid thing. She looked up, lips puckered for a sip, and must’ve seen Angus slinking past, because she gave him a cheery wave.

Then scurried across the road to intercept him.

Well, it would be rude not to say hello, wouldn’t it?

But only hello, because Mum was already going to kill him for missing dinnertime two days in a row.

‘Hi, Angus.’

He tugged his high-vis down again and ducked behind the WW1 monument, putting it between them and the takeaway-munching press. ‘Gillian, hi. Can’t stop, sorry. On a mission.’

She gazed up at him with her smoky eyes wide, a wee bounce to her stance. ‘Did you hear they caught someone? I heard they caught someone. Well, you caught someone, I suppose, as you kind of are the police. How weird is that: I know someone on the investigation! Which is pretty cool.’ She bit her soft peach lips. ‘Ooh, sorry: want some coffee?’ Holding out the plastic cup. ‘It’s salted-caramel latte, but with a triple shot of espresso and heaps of brandy. Great for keeping the cold out!’

He winced. ‘Can’t: on duty.’ Which was only a little white lie to spare her feelings.

‘Are you OK? You look knackered. I’ve got sherbet fruits, if that’s allowed?’ She pinned the brolly in place again and dug out a crumpled packet of sweets. ‘I ate all the blackcurrant ones. Sorry.’

Couldn’t refuse two things in a row, that really would be rude. He plucked a sherbet lime from the bag. ‘Thanks.’

Didn’t eat it, though.

Instead, he waited for her to look the other way and slipped it into his pocket, because good boys didn’t eat sweeties from strange ladies. And neither did police officers.

Gillian lowered her voice, as if worried the monument’s bronze soldiers might be eavesdropping. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye out for anyone sketchy hanging about the press packs, like you asked. Had a good look round at Sadler Road — that’s where we were before this.’ A note of pride raised her chin. ‘I got in the back of Sky News’s coverage, flying the flag for truth, but couldn’t see anyone particularly sketchy.’ She sipped from the thermos lid. ‘Well, you know what journalists are like. But then I got talking to a nice lady from one thirty-eight, and she said there was a bloke getting chased across the playing fields by some police officer who tried to shoot him! Even though there were, like, sixty wee kids right there playing football! Miracle no one died.’

‘It was rugby; there were twenty-four kids; and the bloke running away was doing the shooting!’

She scrunched her button nose up. ‘That’s what they want you to think. Police Scotland’s lying through its... bumhole to protect whoever this gun-happy, reckless, violent officer is.’

‘Me!’ Throwing his hands out. ‘It was me: I was the officer, and it was bloody Ryan who had the gun!’

Her eyes were owl-wide, mouth open showing off a wee pink tongue. ‘You?’

‘Could’ve killed me, and people are saying it’s my fault?’

‘Wow.’ She stared up at him as if he’d grown three feet taller, pink blooming across her cheeks. Then held out the bag of sweets again. ‘Want another?’

‘No, I’m...’ Bloody hell. ‘What’s wrong with people?’

‘Sorry.’ Shuffling her feet.

A patrol car growled past, windscreen wipers going.

On the other side of the road, someone burst into a coughing fit.

The drizzle drizzled.

‘Honest, Angus: I’m really sorry.’ She stroked his arm with the back of her umbrella hand. ‘He’s the one you’ve arrested, isn’t he. Well... at least this Ryan person can’t hurt anyone else.’

An unhappy laugh rattled free. ‘Yeah. Long story.’

‘You haven’t arrested him?’

‘Don’t even know his last name! Honestly, it’s...’ Angus clamped his mouth shut before anything else could fall out. Squinted at the rain fogging around that patrol car’s tail-lights. ‘Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please don’t tell anyone.’

‘Promise I won’t say a word.’

When he turned back, Gillian was gazing up at him again. She bit her bottom lip for a moment, then wobbled up onto her tiptoes and placed a soft warm kiss on his cheek.

Then she was back on the ground again, blushing like it was an Olympic sport and she was a shoo-in for gold. ‘It’s... Yes.’ She cleared her throat. Pulled the sherbet fruits from her pocket and pressed the bag into his hand. ‘Keep them.’

She hurried off without another word, the pink in her cheeks darkening to a rich strawberry.

After about a dozen paces, Gillian looked back at Angus, and collided with a cameraman. Stumbled. Almost hit the deck. Dropped her lopsided umbrella. ‘Sorry!’ Helping the cameraman up. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’ Grabbed her fallen umbrella and scurried away.

Wow.

OK.

Angus blinked, fingertips straying up to touch the spot where she’d kissed him. Still warm and tingling.

A wee smile pulled at the side of his mouth.

He huffed out a breath.

Stuffed the sherbet fruits into one of his borrowed jacket’s pockets.

Right...

Milk.

22

A radio burbled away in the corner of Mr Mendoza’s Ye Olde Corner Store ~ Est. 2014: ‘...can’t tell me they’re not cocking this up on purpose!’

The host had one of those fake radio-DJ voices, trying to bring a bit of smarmy calm to proceedings. ‘That’s a bit strong, Margaret, I’m sure they wouldn’t—’

‘Course they are. Could’ve caught this guy weeks ago, but they know no one gives a toss about these wankers. Doctors, journalists, politicians? And now they’re saying it’s bankers and lawyers next?’

The place was a jumble of crisps and sweets and washing powder, tins and jars and bottles of off-brand fizzy juice, with a sort of Lidl-wannabe middle aisle full of unfamiliar South American things. Most of which were in very colourful packaging that had Spanish names and ingredients. All bathed in the cold, soulless light of fluorescent bulbs that hummed like blowflies.

Angus dripped his way across the grey linoleum to the fridge, rummaging through the four-pint cartons of milk in search of whichever one had the longest to go before its use-by date.

Then took it to the counter and paid for it in small change — counting out every penny. Which Mr Mendoza received with all the delight of a house brick. Or maybe it was just the big droopy moustache that made him look borderline depressed?

‘Why would they want to catch this guy? He’s doing the Lord’s work, you idiot!’

Mr Mendoza looked out at the damp trail Angus had left across the shop floor and his moustache drooped even more.

‘Now let’s calm down a bit, Margaret, and—’

‘You calm down. I’d line the bastards up against the wall, if it was me in charge. Them and all the paedos!’

Angus nodded. ‘Thanks.’ And headed for the door.

The 157 bus to Kingsmeath grumbled its way over the Calderwell Bridge. OK, so the seats were worn, and a bit dirty, and it’d been in operation long enough to still stink of ancient cigarettes, but at least it was dry, reasonably warm, and Angus had a window seat.

Condensation misted the glass, but he’d cleared a little porthole in the fog, watching the traffic go by. City lights twinkling on the other side of the river, fading as the rain swallowed them.

Someone at the back of the bus sang a sad song to themselves, slurring the words through a haze of booze and kebab fat. The joys of Ladies’ Night in an Oldcastle pub.

A glowing reindeer drifted by, followed by a bow, two bells, and a parcel.

Middle of March and the Christmas illuminations were still up, but the council didn’t have enough money to keep the libraries open.

Angus pulled the sherbet lime from his borrowed-high-vis pocket, turning it in his fingers, making the cellophane wrapping crinkle.

Should really chuck the lot in the nearest bin.

You never knew what people were trying to slip you: could be poison inside that little green lozenge. Could be drugs. Someone could’ve wiped their bogies on it, or something worse. And just because Gillian seemed nice, that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous.

There was a sergeant once, back when Angus did his probation — two years pounding the streets of Shortstaine and Cowskillin, learning the ropes from a more experienced officer — Irvine, his name was. And one day Sergeant Irvine accepted a Tupperware box of homemade fig rolls from a grateful pensioner, only to find out they’d been made with a mixture of mouldy dates, sperm, and the cremated remains of the old boy’s wife. Managed to make it through half the container before the vomiting started.

Good job he’d been a greedy bugger and hadn’t offered them around the muster room...

Yeah, but Gillian was lovely.

And she’d kissed him.

And he hadn’t had a sherbet fruit for ages.

Still, remember Sergeant Irvine.

Angus returned the sweet to his pocket and went back to staring out the window instead.

The 157 pulled up at the Milbank Park stop with an angry-snake hisssss of air brakes. Then the doors hinged open, letting in a blast of cold air and the sound of rain hammering the bus shelter.

‘Thanks.’ Angus pulled his high-vis hood up and stepped out into it.

Not that the shelter provided any respite from the downpour — the plastic panels were long gone, leaving only a buckled metal frame behind.

Behind him, the doors clunked shut again, the diesel engine growled, and the number 157 continued on its way.

A sign welcomed visitors to ‘MILLBANK PARK ~ KINGSMEATH’S FRIENDLIEST COMMUNITY’, or it had done for about three weeks, before the local kids got to it — burying the message beneath so many layers of graffiti that it was caked with the stuff. And could you really call a trio of eighteen-storey tower blocks a ‘community’?

Millbank East, North, and West loomed against the angry sky, in all their rain-and-dirt-streaked glory. Tombstones for a thousand murdered dreams.

Angus headed out into the rain, cutting across the car park — currently home to a Fiat Punto that was up on bricks and a handful of manky hatchbacks that wouldn’t survive another MOT. A couple of stray dogs regarded him from the safety of an overturned brown sofa, eyes glittering in the gloom.

He hurried in under the large, cantilevered entrance to Millbank North, with its double doors that someone had finally scraped the posters and fliers off. Leaving ghosts of paper behind.

Off to one side, a wee play park drooped in the rain. Surrounded by sickly trees and bollards. Where a group of five teenagers had gathered in tracksuits and baseball caps, as if it was sometime last century, swigging from two-litre bottles of extra-strong cider. They didn’t seem to mind the rain, just sat there, perched on the remains of the swings and roundabout, watching as Angus reached for the door.

Their hooded eyes followed him. Wary and aggressive. Completely silent. Like hyenas disturbed at a fresh kill.

And not one of them over the age of fifteen.

Should really go have a word, but ‘community policing’ down here tended to get your windows panned in and jobbies shoved through your letterbox. Mum couldn’t cope with that again.

Which is why you never policed the area you came from. Too many opportunities for corruption and/or revenge.

Angus pushed into the lobby, throwing the hood back on his borrowed high-vis.

It wasn’t exactly the Ritz: an abandoned shopping trolley, full of empty tins, stood cock-ended on three wheels — even though the nearest supermarket was ages away; while a ginger tom with matted fur sprayed the lift doors — right below the message ‘CURRENTLY OUT OF ORDER, SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE’, onto which someone had scrawled ‘IT’S BEEN THREE YEARS!!!’

So the cat had the right idea.

Angus shoved through the door marked ‘STAIRS’ into the throat-scouring stench of disinfectant. Which was better than the alternative.

Some community-spirited individual had given the stairwell a rough coat of magnolia, covering up the worst graffiti, though someone had been in after them to spray a massive cock-and-balls on the newly blanked canvas.

Angus squared his shoulders and began the long climb home...

Fourteen storeys later, he lumbered out of the stairwell and onto the balcony/walkway that linked the four flats on this side of the tower block. Each with its own little ‘garden’ of planters and concrete, and a front door onto the great, soggy outdoors. Bulkhead lights cast their wan yellow glow out into the darkness, flickering as one of the bulbs struggled to fire up properly.

A howling wind wrapped itself around the building, but the overhang of the balcony above kept most of the rain off. Even if it was brass monkeys up here.

Angus dug out his keys and slogged his way over to Mum’s front door — painted a deep indigo blue, like the one back home had been — with four brass numerals, polished and shiny in the sputtering overhead light: ‘1408’. A wee plaque sat above the letterbox: ‘MACVICAR’.

At least he’d managed to persuade her not to name the flat.

Cos that would just be asking for trouble.

He unlocked the door and...

Nope. He’d only get yelled at, marching in there all soaking wet.

Instead, he stripped off his nice, warm, padded high-vis and gave it a vigorous shake. That done, he unlaced his shoes — completely sodden now — then hauled off his soggy socks and stuffed them into their empty carcases. Hissing as the cold concrete balcony jabbed his bare soles with a bazillion icy needles.

Angus high-stepped onto the front mat and hurried inside.

The hall was clean and tidy, swept and dusted, as if Mum was permanently expecting a visit from some minor royal.

And speaking of royalty...

A shin-high whirlwind of fur was waiting for him on the worn carpet, trembling with excitement, yapping with delight, tail going like a windscreen wiper in a monsoon. Wee Hamish launched into a bouncy twirly dance at Angus’s naked feet, gazing up with pure hairy adoration and unconditional delight.

Angus bent down and ruffled the fuzzy little lad’s head with his free hand. ‘Hey, Hamish.’

Cue terrier-type raptures.

Must be nice to be so unbothered by bills and responsibilities and murderers and wars and climate change and all the associated horrors.

‘Mum?’ He hung up his borrowed jacket.

The sound of a game show dinged out through the closed living-room door, sticky with forced jollity. Upstairs, Mr and Mrs Ratcliffe were shouting at each other again. Downstairs, someone was practising ‘Smoke On The Water’ on the electric guitar. Badly.

Angus slipped his damp feet into his bauchly old slippers — urgh... — and headed for the bathroom. Only the little red triangle on the lock was showing.

She was in residence.

He made for the kitchen instead, with Wee Hamish wheeling around his ankles.

The disappointing scent of stewed vegetables filled the small space, crowding a fitted kitchen that had probably already been out of fashion when it was installed sometime in the 1970s.

He wrung his socks out in the sink, careful not to splosh grey-brown water everywhere. Then popped them back in his wet shoes. Washed his hands.

The fridge wasn’t technically an antique, it just sounded like one. Opening the door revealed the usual expanse of empty shelves, but a clingfilm-covered plate had pride of place next to a block of mousetrap cheese. Looked like some sort of casserole with a side of shrivelled peas and boiled tatties.

Sigh.

He put it on the worktop and stuck the milk into the door pocket, next to an open thing of white-wine-in-a-box. Which definitely wasn’t usual. Not in this house anyway. A bottle of supermarket sherry at Christmas, maybe a four-pack of beer on his birthday, and that was it.

Wine in a box? Very fancy.

He clunked the door shut and took down the old Quality Street tin. Shoogling off the lid to reveal a pile of bone-shaped biscuits — one of which went into Wee Hamish, while the plate went into the microwave.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Crunch, munch, crunch, wag-wag-wag-wag-wag-wag-wag.

A familiar voice squeezed into the crowded kitchen: ‘You look like shite. You know that, right?’

Angus froze. Then opened the cupboard by the kettle and pulled out the off-brand brown sauce. ‘Ellie.’ He didn’t turn to look at her, just went about his business: salt, pepper, cutlery, glass of water. ‘Was just about to call you.’

Which was true. Ish.

She pushed past him, opening the fridge and pulling out the box-o’-wine. ‘Your mum’s been frantic. Thought a wee Chardonnay or three might ease things a bit.’ Ellie held a glass under the spigot and filled it — making widdling noises to join the microwave’s buzz. She took a sip. ‘Did you know the arse is hanging out your trousers?’

He turned his back to the units. ‘Ellie, I really don’t—’

‘Hang on.’ Grabbing the side of his suit jacket, she pulled it up and out, like a basset hound’s ear. ‘You’ve got moths.’

She twisted it, so he could see: a perfectly round hole poked straight through the back panel, about halfway between where his nipple and his belly button would’ve been.

Ellie stuck her finger through the bullet hole and wiggled it.

‘Oh, for... I just bought this suit!’

Ping.

Angus snatched up a tea towel and rescued his dinner from the microwave. Thumped it on a tray with his condiments, cruet, cutlery and drink. Cursed the melty-hot clingfilm from the plate with stinging fingertips. Then picked the lot up and scowled his way through to the living room.

Like the hall, it awaited a royal visitor who would never call.

OK, so the furniture was all mismatched and second-hand — the holes in its upholstery hidden beneath layers of tartan blankets and paisley-pattern throws — and the rug by the fireplace was only there to hide a bit in the carpet that was worn down to the underlay, but no one could say it wasn’t clean.

Mum always maintained that a lovely big fifty-inch TV would be common and obscene, which was probably easier than admitting they couldn’t afford one, so a much more modest television sat in the corner, broadcasting a fake blonde and some fat beardy bloke as they shrieked their shopping trolley around an obstacle course, while other D-list celebrities threw oversized foam models of junk food at them. Bet the BAFTAs were watching with prizes at the ready.

‘...Ooh, Darren almost got them with a cheeseburger there! You could say they nearly meat their maker, if you’ll pardon the bun—’

Angus plonked his tray on the coffee table and hit mute.

Sod off.

He collapsed into the creaky armchair by the fire.

Wee Hamish claimed the couch.

Ellie leaned against the doorframe, toasting them both with her wine. ‘Hello, Ellie. It’s lovely to see you, Ellie.’ Sip. ‘It’s lovely to see you too, Angus, and thank you for the warm welcome. Especially after I put my tits on the line convincing the Knap to spike that Dr Fife story!’

Groan...

He picked up his fork. ‘Sorry. Been a long day.’

‘So I heard.’ She wandered in and thumped him on the arm. ‘Any more thoughts about what I said this morning? About your dad?’

‘No.’ Difficult to know where to start with dinner, so he mashed his tatties into the watery gravy. ‘Mum doesn’t want a fuss. She doesn’t like it when people fuss—’

‘ANGUS! Oh, Angus!’ Speak of the devil... She rushed into the living room, wringing her hands. Thirteen years they’d lived here, and she still looked as out of place as the day they arrived. Short and roundish was pretty standard for Kingsmeath, but not the floral skirt and layered tops: blouse, teal V-neck, and terracotta cardigan. Glasses on a chain around her neck. Neat grey hair and a lined forehead. You’d never think she was only in her fifties. She’d kept the posh Aberdeen accent too. ‘My brave little boy!’

She rushed over and enveloped him in a choking hug, tears sparking in her eyes.

OK, that was...

He tried not to cringe.

Angus grimaced over her shoulder at Ellie — who shrugged.

Probably the wine.

Mum wasn’t used to wine.

He patted her on the back. ‘Are you—’

‘Ellie showed me the videos, on her phone! Oh, how could anyone be so wicked?’

‘Videos...?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Ellie settled on the arm of the sofa. ‘The kids playing rugby: they filmed the whole thing and posted it on YouTube. You’ll be all over the papers tomorrow: “Lumbering great twit gets shot at on playing field!”’

‘He could’ve killed you!’ Mum let go and backed up a bit, the weepy look replaced by something much harder as she clipped him on the back of the head. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘Ow!’ Rubbing the impact spot. ‘I was...’

Wait a minute.

He scowled at Ellie. ‘Is that why you’re here: winding Mum up for a bit of extra colour? I said you’d get your sodding exclusive.’

Mum hit him again. ‘Don’t be so rude!’

Soon as she moved towards the couch, Wee Hamish obediently jumped down and waited for Mum to sit, before leaping into her lap and staring up at her as if she were a god.

Ellie shrugged. ‘Wanted to make sure you were OK, that’s all. Didn’t want your mum to be alone at this difficult time.’

‘She didn’t even know it was a “difficult time” till you turned up and showed her!’

‘Angus! Ellie has been nothing but a good friend, and you’re being horrible.’

He rolled his eyes and went back to his sad dinner. Scooping up some casserole, which seemed to be ninety percent veg with only a couple of chunks of what might be generously described as ‘sausage’. It tasted every bit as exciting as it looked. But there was only so much brown sauce you could add before it appeared impolite.

Ellie picked the other glass off the coffee table and handed it to Mum. ‘It’ll probably be on the ten o’clock news anyway, so she’d find out soon enough.’ Ellie clinked their glasses together. ‘At least this way everyone’s forewarned and anaesthetized.’

She sipped her wine, watching him eat. ‘But if you want to make it up to me — for all your rudeness — and keep up your end of the bargain, a nice big chunk of human interest and colour might help...?’

Rain misted down, blurring the streetlights. Couldn’t even tell where the valley ended and the sky began. Everything out of focus, like a malignant X-ray.

Angus turned his back on the lack-of-view, rested his borrowed high-vis against the handrail, and took a sip of tea. Phone in his other hand, poking out a one-thumbed message to Dr Fife:

SEND.

The front door eased open and Ellie slipped out — all bundled up in her big duvet coat, making a big show of hunching her shoulders and shivering. ‘God almighty, it’s like Siberia out here.’ She winkled a bright-pink vape from her pocket and took a hefty sook on the thing. Blowing a cloying lungful of salted caramel in his direction. Thankfully, the wind took care of that.

She sniffed. ‘You still stealing Wi-Fi off Mr Rosomakha?’ Leaning on the railing, frowning out into the night. ‘Bit dishonest for an overgrown boy scout.’

‘That was years ago. And I wasn’t a boy scout.’

A smile curled the side of her mouth. ‘Oh no, nothing so uncool as “Dib-dib-dib, dub-dub-dub, where’s Akela? On the sex-offenders’ register.” No, you could recite the whole pledge of allegiance to Gondor. In Elvish.’

She tried again with the sweet vapey cloud — close enough this time for it to envelop him.

He waved it away, spluttering till the wind ripped it apart. ‘Do you have to?’

‘Don’t have any worms on me.’

‘And there’s nothing wrong with LARPing. At least it got me out in the fresh air.’

‘Running round swinging wooden swords and pretending to cast spells, like a bunch of idiots. No wonder you never got laid.’

‘I was fourteen!’

‘Blah, blah.’ She sent another cloud his way. ‘This guy you’ve got in custody: you don’t think it’s really him, do you?’

Yeah, he wasn’t answering that. Especially after she’d been so rude about Live Action Role Playing.

Ellie put her vape away. ‘Off the record.’

‘It’s complicated.’ A yawn skittered up his spine and made his jaw pop. Leaving him sagging. ‘Right now I’m more worried about Ryan.’

‘Cos if it’s not him, by this time tomorrow you’re looking at two dead lawyers, or bankers.’

‘Yes, thank you, Admiral Absolutely Bloody Obvious.’ Angus turned so he was facing the same way she was — trying to pick out the vague outline of Meathmill Academy in the dark. He huffed out a breath.

Might as well ask, right?

Angus cleared his throat and warmth bloomed in his cheeks. ‘You know Gillian? From the demos. The one you interviewed?’ Nonchalant pause. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Oh aye?’ The smile was back. ‘Got a wee touch of the hotties, have we?’

‘No. Just... She gave me a bag of sweets and kissed my cheek.’ He pulled the sherbet fruits from his high-vis pocket and showed Ellie the packet.

She raised an eyebrow, then helped herself to a strawberry one. ‘The brazen hussy.’ Unwrapping the thing and popping it into her mouth. ‘Mmmm...’ Smacking her lips. ‘Surprised you didn’t wolf all these. Thought you loved sherbet fruits.’

‘Yeah, but you never know, do you? If members of the public give you things. Maybe they’ve interfered with them.’

‘What?’ Eyes wide, she spat the sweetie out as if it were radioactive, sending the little red lozenge spiralling away into the rain. ‘You could’ve warned me!’ Wiping her tongue. ‘Gah...’

Now that was definitely worth a grin. ‘She probably didn’t, though.’

‘That wasn’t funny!’

‘Serves you right.’ He curled one shoulder up to his ear. ‘It’s just, you know, she’s kinda...?’

Ellie’s top lip curled. ‘Urgh: I was right, you are nursing a stiffy for her! Forgot you like them pretty and weird.’ Shuffling away a couple of feet, in case it was catching. ‘Remember Mary in art class? With the long red hair and that ridiculous little rabbit nose? Two years you followed her around like a horny, hormonal, spotty shadow, and never once worked up the balls to talk to her.’

Bit unfair.

He put the sherbet fruits away. ‘Yeah, Gillian’s a little strange — what with all the Covid conspiracy stuff — but maybe I should ask if she fancies getting a drink when the case is over?’

Ellie hit him. ‘She’s a civilian, not a suspect, you muppet. And what if you never catch this guy? Going to stay a virgin forever?’

Helpful as ever.

‘Yes, but what should I do?’

‘Whatever you like; none of my business. Shag her, don’t shag her, makes no odds to me. Couldn’t care less.’ Ellie pushed herself off the handrail and jammed her hands deep in her pockets. ‘Now are you going to give me something juicy for this exclusive or not?’

‘Pursuing multiple lines of inquiry, asking everyone to remain vigilant, we will catch the Fortnight Killer, et cetera.’ Angus puffed out his cheeks. Sagged. ‘But off the record? I’ve got a nasty feeling about tomorrow, Ellie.’ He frowned out at the storm. ‘A very nasty feeling indeed...’